


A World of Locked Doors

by MagicDreamer0630



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Follows plot of show, Gen, Mild Language, Original Character-centric, POV First Person, mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:58:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 53,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicDreamer0630/pseuds/MagicDreamer0630
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a paper-pusher like Kim, a good day is one with little fuss and less drama, especially when that paper-pushing job happens to be at New Scotland Yard. But when her boss decides he's had enough of the Consulting Detective butting into his case, Kim finds herself nose-diving into the exact brand of trouble she'd sworn off nearly a year to the day. If only she could actually show up on time, maybe she'd have a bit more say on matters...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE NOTE: This IS a Sherlock/Original Character fic, albeit a slightly obscure one. It'll follow the show only as far as major events go; there will be changes made for the sake of fluidity. There'll be a few direct quotes from the show, and quite a few butchered moments as well. Also, bear in mind I've never been to London in my life, so I'm taking major claim on creative licensing, and all Britpicking is my own.  
> While this may be my first -submitted- story on here, it's not the first I've ever written, so feel free to critique as you see fit.  
> Most of this will be submitted all at once, because I wrote quite a bit of it ahead of time, but as I'm kind of stuck I'm hoping submitting will give me more motivation.  
> I've no real skill with html, either, so bear with me on that, too.  
> Enjoy!

00 - PREFACE  
This wasn’t the way things were supposed to go. I was the _normal_ one. I didn’t go running around rooftops or chase serial murderers through the underground of London. I just didn’t.

“Sorry, boys! I’m _so_ changeable! It is a bit of a weakness of mine, but to be fair to myself, it is my _only_ weakness. I might have let you live, if you hadn’t brought your little back-up against me…”

Who was I kidding myself? I wasn’t ever normal. I should have realized that years ago when I first started hacking minor governments in my spare time.

“Don’t be shy, sweetheart, answer your phone.” I wanted nothing more than to shoot the man between his _eyes_ , but the cool glass of the phone’s screen was enough to focus on and distract from his disgusting, possessive touch in my hair. I failed to keep my voice neutral despite my best efforts, “H-hello?”

“Are you alright?” The question echoed awkwardly, just soft enough that I could only hear a murmur thru the room itself. A hysteric chuckle bubbled up unaccounted past worried lips, “I’ve, ah, I’ve been better, thanks.”

The hand tangled in my hair tightened, “Go on, sweetheart, ask him. I’m sure he already knows. Ask him how you’re going to die.” I was going to have nightmares of this for _weeks_ , I realized as a dooming weight settled in the pit of my stomach.

Looking down, I first caught brown eyes—concerned, and justly so—then hazel, seemingly a million miles away. I realized then that neither of them had a plan. “Tomorrow,” I heard myself say suddenly. The hand twisted a fistful of my hair in warning as my captor repeated his demand. I forced myself to stare down into the bright, icy hazel, “Tomorrow. Will you play the violin for me?”

My captor groaned in annoyance, his cry of _no, no, no_ increasing into a shout that made my ears ring. “…I don’t think you’re going to live to tomorrow, Kim,” I heard through the phone, soft and reserved. Were it anybody else, I would go so far as to call it sad—but I knew he wouldn’t be. If anything, he may have been disappointed that I was too predictably _stupid_ to not do as the psychopath said. Forced to hold the phone between my temple and shoulder or let it fall, I ignored my captor’s comment about puppets and strings and tried not to fidget. “See, that’s what I’ve always liked about you, Sherlock,” I heard myself saying over him into the phone, “You’re always strong enough to stick to the facts and the work.”

It was an…odd…sensation, being stabbed through the gut. The pain didn’t really hit at first; it was more of a dull sort of itch than anything. Intrusive as it nonetheless was, I stared at the katana’s bloody tip protruding from my torso. The phone fell first, and I watched it splash into the pool below before a hand shoved me by the shoulder, hard. I felt the blade slide out as gravity pulled me down.

As the deep end of the pool rushed up to meet me, my last coherent thought was fairly simple, albeit irrational: _god_ I hated Wednesdays…


	2. It Begins

01 – It Begins

**Several Months Previously**

_God_ , I hated Wednesdays. The traffic was terrible, the people were moody, and everyone just couldn’t wait for the weekend to start. I leveled my best glare at the red light, willing it to change, before casting a worried glance at the stereo’s clock. Dimmok was going to have my head for being late, and as I was unfortunately learning, there were only so many paper-pushing jobs to be had around London. 

Pulling rather sloppily into the nearest parking space I could find I raced into New Scotland Yard, nearly colliding with someone from Lestrade’s team as I went. Oh, what I would’ve given to get _that_ job instead, I thought distractedly as I slipped into the newly-promoted DI’s office. He was on the phone with someone, irate, and I placatingly forfeited my untouched coffee.

Dismissed by a wave of hand, I managed not to break my smiling mask as I scurried back into my cubicle. So it was to be one of _those_ days… Waiting for my ancient computer to boot up I none-so-subtly took stock of the rest of the floor. A few people were rushing about more than usual; phones seemed eerily calm despite the buzz of attentive atmosphere that usually only came with a major call-in. 

“Well, Doyle, it’s your lucky day,” Dimmok’s sudden voice at my other side made me jump, disturbing the pile of papers still leftover from yesterday. I checked to make sure none of them got away before turning to my boss, “L-lucky day, sir?”

“The wife’s got my car. You’re going to drive me to a crime scene,” dropping the keys as though simply assuming I would catch them the young Detective Inspector strode off towards the car park. I hastily thumbed the monitor off and lunged after him, falling in stride a step back and to his left, as I’d been advised by my predecessor. 

On the way, Dimmok filled me in on the details. Apparently it was the death of some kind of international banker, called in by someone named _Watson_ —I vaguely recalled hearing the name float around Lestrade’s team. Lestrade himself had then shortly after called Dimmok, explaining all about the _Consulting Detective_ —whatever THAT was—Sherlock Holmes, and to expect him on the scene.

Pulling up to the curb I’d just killed the engine when Dimmok turned to me again, “Don’t say anything, don’t touch anything, and don’t get in the way, or its back to the office for you. Are we clear, Doyle?” Mumbling a reserved _yessir_ I lingered only long enough to ensure I had the keys and the car was securely locked before following the rest of the team up.

“Yeah, I know who you are. And I’d prefer it if you didn’t tamper with any of the evidence,” Dimmok was saying crossly. I followed the sound into the bedroom, where I found myself playing human door stopper for the traffic of Forensics people. Dimmok was glaring down a pair of unfamiliar faces—faces I assumed to be Watson and Holmes—and the taller of the two gave me a piercing, sweeping glance that I only just managed to not fidget under.

Evidently dismissed by the man, he settled his attention back on Dimmok, “I phoned Lestrade, is he on his way?”

“He’s busy; _I’m_ in charge. And it’s not sergeant, it’s Detective Inspector. Dimmok.” Turning his glare towards me a moment he headed out back into the sitting room. I waited for the pair to go past before following suit, idly casting a glance about the flat. It seemed nice, if not very unlived in. If it weren’t for the ridiculously creepy factor of a dead man lying on the bed, I’d assume the place was for rent or something.

Still, something nagged at me enough that I couldn’t bite my tongue when Dimmok addressed one of the Forensics to hand an evidence bag over. “Umm…”  
“ _Quiet_ , Doyle,” He berated before continuing, “We’re obviously looking at a suicide.”  
“But—”  
“Doyle, I’m warning you. Mouth _shut_ , remember?”

I bit my lips together obediently and managed to hold in my outburst only long enough for him to turn around and begin his murmured conversation again. “But wasn’t he left-handed?!”

The inquiry made the whole flat go eerily still. I could all but feel the impatience radiating off my boss, and I looked away in embarrassment—there goes my job, I couldn’t help but think. Feeling a set of eyes on me, I looked up to find the curly-haired man staring at me in disbelief, “Now how could you have _possibly_ picked that out?”


	3. Bigger than THis

02 – Bigger than This

I swallowed thickly, glancing at the others before settling back on the man. “W-well,” I started lamely, “I’m the only lefty in my family. It’s easy for me to pick out those kinds of differences. So it couldn’t be suicide if the gun and the wound were on the right side of the body…right?” The man looked fleetingly impressed and vastly curious, like a little boy with some new remote-controlled toy. Dimmok stepped closer, “ _Left_ handed?”

“I’m amazed you didn’t notice, all you’d have to do is look around this flat. Even your _secretary_ managed that much,” the man rolled his eyes in a sudden burst of annoyance, turning to the room as a whole, “Coffee table on the left-hand side, coffee mug handle pointing to the left; Power sockets, habitually used the one on the left. Pen and paper on the left-hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and took down notes with his left—do you want me to go on?”

“No, I think you’ve covered it,” the blonde spoke for the first time. On a roll, the curly-haired man continued in the same breath, “Oh, I might as well, I’m almost at the bottom of the list. There’s a knife on the bread board with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left. It’s highly unlikely that a _left_ -handed man would shoot himself on the _right_ side of his head. Conclusion: someone broke in here and murdered him. Only explanation of all of the facts.”

Flustered, Dimmok jumped in, “But the gun had a bulle—”  
“He was waiting for the killer. He’d been threatened.”

Suddenly the flat seemed twice as eerie and half as safe. “…What?” Dimmok demanded. “Today, at the bank,” the blonde explained shortly, “sort of a…warning…” Unperturbed, the taller, yet-unnamed man began to don his scarf and coat, “He fired a shot when his attacker came in.”  
“And the bullet?”

“Went through the open window.” Blinking, Dimmok looked from one man to the other, “Aw, come on, what are the chances of that?” he tried. I stepped up hesitantly, “But think about it, sir,” I couldn’t help but add, “If the bedroom door was locked, then the balcony’s the only way they could’ve come in, right? If a bullet’s going to miss at that angle, where else is it going to go?”

“Doyle, _out_.” Flinching at the irritated demand I finally managed to shut up. Collecting my coat, I left the keys on the end table where I knew Dimmok could see them and tried not to wonder if I ought to start looking for another job. As the door swung shut behind me, I could hear the curly-haired man continue on about the ballistics report’s results.

I’d just made it to the bottom of the stairs when I heard a shouted, “Miss Doyle!” Waiting patiently for them to catch up the taller offered a polite grin and his hand, “I’m Sherlock Holmes.” Well, at least I had an idea what a _Consulting Detective_ was, I couldn’t help but think as I accepted the handshake, “Kim.”  
“If you’re willing, I believe you might be able to help us.”  
“Help..?”

“Surely it bothers you, knowing that man was murdered despite the thick-headedness of your boss?” The other—Watson, I assumed—gave a warning sigh of _Sherlock_ under his breath. “No, it’s fine,” I managed a placating smile, “Dimmok just got promoted. He’s still not used to…well, any of it, I guess.” Thinking it through, I knew I didn’t have much of a choice. I’d be lucky if I was even allowed into NSY again, much less able to keep my job, after nosing into a crime scene like that. But if I could still at least help—well, it beat crap telly on the list of ways to kill time, for sure.

Leveling my gaze with the icy one of Sherlock Holmes, I found myself nodding, “How can I help?”


	4. Another one Bites the Dust

03 – Another one Bites the Dust

The flat I’d been brought to was cozy and well-lived-in, a refreshing change from the crime scene. On the cab drive there—and when Sherlock stopped at some restaurant for _the thing_ , whatever that entailed—the pair of them explained what exactly was going on.

Apparently, being a not-quite-PI, Sherlock was hired to solve the mystery of graffiti at the bank Eddie VanCoon—the dead man at the crime scene—worked for. Their investigation led them to VanCoon’s flat, where they discovered the body, but still had no idea the motivation behind such an attack.

“So how do I come in, exactly? Thanks,” Smiling briefly at the landlady, Mrs. Hudson, for the mug of tea I sipped it idly while returning my attention on the Consulting Detective. “You’re more observant than most people give you credit for, and you use that to your advantage, Miss Doyle. Evidently I require more than one trustworthy person in the Yard for cases to run smoothly.”

“And you, what, want me to spy on them for you?” I felt my eyebrows raise in surprise at that, but judging by his gleeful grin, I had the sinking suspicion he knew what my answer to this arrangement was going to be before I’d even decided. “Occasionally, as the need arises, yes. If this Detective Inspector Dimmok is indeed here to stay, I will need your help in convincing him that I am not a waste of time.”

“I can see how that would be helpful to you,” I relented, pausing only to take another swig of tea, “If it weren’t for the issue of me most likely getting sacked because of my outburst today.”  
“Please. Even after as many tardies as you’ve had, you’re not getting sacked any time soon.”

I felt myself blink forcibly at that. It wasn’t the first such comment, and I couldn’t help but be irrationally curious at it. “Tardies,” I prompted with more than a little disbelief. “Obviously. You aren’t wearing any makeup, yet there’s a distinct rattle in your purse of various cosmetics—you don’t have time to put it on in the morning, so you bring it with you to do later. That implies you’re short on time in the morning—you’re a secretary, standard nine-to-five job, which means you’re likely to get stuck in the morning rush-hour. You set keys down at the flat, but there are a set in your purse as well, so you drive and therefore are more likely to be late than if you took the tube.”

Much like when he’d pointed out all the hints of VanCoon being left-handed, Sherlock’s train of thought was completely linear and with very few pauses, even for breath. Impressed, I found myself grinning at him, “Okay, then why do they keep me around?”  
“You’re good with computers; you’re valuable enough to them that the tardiness is irrelevant.”

_Well_. That certainly made more sense than the half-hearted bull Dimmok had fed me when I’d asked as much. Setting the mug down slowly I chose my next words carefully, “…You’re not wrong. I’ve made several programs that have sped things up around the Yard.”

“Do you think you could create one to search for a pair of symbols,” John Watson intervened curiously, still in the kitchen. I turned my attention towards him with a shrug, “I could try. I’d need my equipment back home, though. A scanner, and a more secure network.”

So, impossibly, I found myself agreeing to return to 221B Baker Street the following day after my shift with anything I could find on the two scribbles Sherlock had thrust at me on my way out. John, at least, seemed to have sense enough to make sure we exchanged contact information before departing.

I never would have imagined seeing them sooner than that, however, and was more than a little surprised when the guard’s flustered call of _excuse me, sirs_ the next day made me look up to find Sherlock and John striding the wrong way through the labyrinth of cubicles and desks. Flicking off my monitor I quickly caught up to them, resting a soothing hand on the guard’s arm more to steal a glance at his name tag than to genuinely placate him, “It’s alright, Billy. I’ll take it from here.”

Once the elderly guard was out of earshot I folded my arms over my chest, “Come all this way to use the loo, did you?” At Sherlock’s confused blink I grinned, “This floor’s a reverse of Lestrade’s. C’mon; you’re here to see Dimmok, I assume? You’ll find him in a much more… _chaste_ mood than yesterday. Just do me a favor and don’t tell him _I told you so_? He’s probably more unbearable to deal with this way than his usual pompous self. At least then I know how to avoid his wrath.”

Knocking thrice on the frame of the open doorway, I poked my head into the office, “Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson to see you, sir.” I waited for the pair to sit before offering to get drinks, and when I returned with the coffee for Dimmok and water for John, Sherlock had somehow acquired a laptop.

“I’ve just handed you a murder inquiry,” the sleuth was saying, bent over with his hands flat on either side of the laptop. Dimmok looked thoroughly like he wanted to strangle something, so I wisely retreated a step as Sherlock continued, “Five minutes in his flat.”

The DI swallowed thickly before clearing his throat, sitting straighter in his chair and busying himself with shuffling papers, “Doyle, take Mr. Holmes and his companion to this address,” he copied something onto a post-it and thrust it in my general direction, keeping a level stare on the sleuth, “Make sure he doesn’t touch anything.”  
“Yessir,” I bit my lips together to keep from saying anything else, collected my bag, and turned towards the pair, “If you gentlemen will follow me?”

I managed to stave the questions until we were pulling out of the car park, “How did you know he would get me to take you?”  
“The less he has to deal with me the sooner his pride will heal,” Sherlock explained in a tone that implied stating the obvious. “How’s the search coming?” Distracted from the rest of my questions by the sudden inquiry I shrugged, “Its coming. Every recorded, man-made symbol is a lot to go through. I’ve set up an alert to go through my mobile if it finds anything.”

“That’s impressive,” John piped up from the back seat. I gave him a rather surprised glance through the rear-view mirror at the compliment but willed myself silent until we arrived. If we were going to a crime scene, I doubted Sherlock wanted idle chatter slowing him down.

Taped off as it was, the neighbors seemed to give the flat a wide berth, allowing me to park right in front. I made sure to slap the ‘anywhere permit’ into the corner of the window before locking up and following them in.

The door opened straight onto stairs cluttered with books, leading to a landing cluttered with even more books. Sherlock was stood in the center of the room to the left—a sitting room, office, and kitchenette all in one it seemed, with just as much clutter as the rest of the flat seemed to hold. “He was a writer?” I guessed, standing beside John as Sherlock swept his gaze around the room. “Journalist,” the Doctor explained quietly before frowning. “How did _you_ know that?”

“Roommate at Uni,” I shrugged, “She would leave her books and papers in the _bathroom_.” Sherlock, meanwhile, had meandered to the window and peeked down, “Four floors up. _That’s_ why they think they’re safe. Put a chain ‘cross the door, they think they’re impenetrable. They don’t reckon for one second that there’s another way in.”

“So, a killer that can climb,” I guessed again—VanCoon’s flat was fairly high as well. Sherlock didn’t seem to hear me, brushing between us to cross the landing into the hall opposite. He opened the slanted skylight and peered out, muttering something I couldn’t quite hear. “But why a banker and a _journalist_?”

“We need to find out what connects these two men,” Sherlock glanced around the landing before heading back in through the open door, glancing around again. I stared at the clutter of books at my feet in thought before realizing one of them had been dropped rather more haphazardly than the rest. Picking it up I discovered it to be a library book from West Kingston Library—stamped last night.

“Alright, our five minutes are up; let’s go.” Sherlock groaned in annoyance but continued to face the other way, “Who cares about five minutes, Kim, we need a _lead_!”  
“Yes, and I think I’ve got one, so let’s go.”  
“What could you have possib—oh.” His sneering jibe died the moment he turned around to see the book in my hand. I raised my eyebrows pointedly, “Five minutes, and you didn’t touch anything. Shall we?”

Once we’d pulled back onto the main road, Sherlock took the book from my lap and fanned through the pages. “Once you drop us off, go back to the Yard and finish your shift. I’ll text if we need you.”

“So that’s it, is it?” I resolutely kept my eyes on the road, “Throw me into this madness you call life and then keep me in the shallows once it gets interesting?”  
“We’re talking about a murderer, Kim,” John pointed out, “That’s not what most people ought to consider _interesting_.” 

“You know what I mean,” I gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Until we know more about this killer, the less you’re involved in this case the better,” Sherlock sighed through pursed lips. “You’re not a soldier. This lifestyle is new for you, and you’ve yet to understand the seriousness of it. We can’t afford to hold back and keep you from acting brashly.”

Harsh as it was, the truth appropriately silenced me. I _wasn’t_ someone who ran around through crime scenes. I never liked that aspect of things, anyway—I preferred the extracted method—less mess and far fewer threats on my general well-being.

“You’re right,” I admitted finally, just as the library came into view. “I’ll stick to my area of experience and you stick to yours. I’ll let you know when the search results come through.”

“Good.” Sherlock was practically out of the car before I’d even pulled to a stop. Taking that as my exit cue, I hollered a tentative _be careful, then_ and made my way back to New Scotland Yard. I wasn’t looking forward to the dull necessity of paper-pushing for four hours after that kind of whirlwind, but I also knew I had little choice in the matter.

It wasn’t exactly like I could be of much help, anyway.


	5. Peckish

04 – Peckish

_Found Symbols: 15 and 1 from left to right. Hang Zhou numerals._  
-KD   
I sent the text off as quickly as I could while juggling the takeaway bag and my keys. Kicking the door shut behind me I absently called for the system to lock before kicking off my shoes and making my way to the kitchen island. My phone buzzed before I could set it into its dock, so I manually checked to discover a reply.  
 **Thanks, Kim! –JW**

I frowned at that, checking again. I was sure I’d sent that to Sherlock…  
 _I thought this was Sherlock’s number?_  
 **It is, but the git was ignoring it so I answered.**  
The reply was just as fast, and made me chuckle before slipping the phone into place. “Messages still open,” R9 warned, as I knew she would, “Close or reply?”

“R9, type reply: I see. Need anything else? R9, end reply and read back.” Making sure the message was correct I gave the system a go-ahead to send, idly wondering if I could smoothen the voiceover any as I doled out my dinner. 

R9 was the fastest, smartest, and perhaps most sarcastic home security system ever to be built on this side of the telly screen. Modeled vaguely after JERVIS from the Iron Man films, Reboot-Nine had made me safer and lazier than ever before. While it may not have been completely accurate to claim I’d made a program to search for the symbols, R9 had indeed _started_ as a program. She’d just gotten more advanced over the years.

Between eating dinner and relaying my replies through R9, I learned that the journalist had been given the cipher as well at the library, both he and VanCoon were, apparently, smugglers through China, and John and Sherlock were on their way to the museum for their next lead. Once again, I was on standby for help, though John promised he’d let me know ASAP if there was anything.

It was therefore surprising, as I rushed into the Yard a typical three minutes late from my lunch break the next day, that Dimmok was not only waiting at my cubicle but seemed strangely complacent in a sort of forced-friendliness. “Good afternoon, sir,” I greeted with no small amount of apprehension. I tried not to let my panic show as I thought through my last moments on the clock before break; I hadn’t left anything stupid or dangerous open, had I?

“Oh, calm down, Doyle, you’re not in trouble,” Dimmok sighed in irritation—far more familiar territory. “You and that PI Holmes. You get on well?”

Surprised at the sudden inquiry, I shrugged and sat as nonchalantly as possible, “As well as two complete strangers who’ve met twice can, I suppose so, yes.”  
“Good. He’s asked for the books from both murdered men’s flats. Make sure he gets them.”

Dimmok had already walked a good ways off before I had the sense to turn around and ask, “And what should I do then, sir?”  
“Keep him off my bloody back,” the man waved irritably, “I don’t care if it takes you all week, just make sure this thing wraps up without him breathing down my neck again.”

“As you wish, sir,” I nodded and managed to keep the grin off all the way to the car park, where a few of the other paper pushers were standing around my car with a dozen crates between them. “What’re you so happy about,” one of them asked grumpily as we loaded. “I get out of sitting on my bum for the next five hours, what d’you think?”

“Yeah, but you’re working with that weird Holmes fellow, aren’t you?” the other frowned, lowering his voice, “Isn’t he kind of eccentric?” I shrugged, “Between you and me? I’d take eccentric strangers over a moody Dimmok any day of the week.”

The drive to Baker Street was blissfully uneventful, and the space out front was empty. I was almost in a great mood—until I remembered 221B was upstairs, and all the other lazy sods had abandoned me for their shifts. I wasn’t looking forward to hauling a dozen crates up in the least.

Still, at least Mrs. Hudson was nice and remembered me. Promising to be right back she popped up to ‘ask the boys about it’, and I could hear her voice travel down through the open door. “Are we collecting for charity, Sherlock?” Someone—assumedly Sherlock—muttered something in reply before the landlady continued, “That charming young lady you had over for tea the other day is outside with crates of books.”

Twelve boxes and a ridiculous amount of tripping on stairs later, I plopped gratefully into the overstuffed armchair. “Man, I haven’t had to do that much heavy lifting since Uni.”  
“Shouldn’t you be getting back to the Yard?” John asked, not unkindly. I managed a shrug half-way through my stretch, “Apparently Dimmok’s at his Holmsian limit. I’m under strict orders to be your go-between for the Yard until this case is solved. I take it the cipher is a book code, then?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock had already dug into the top two boxes nearest the fireplace, “It has to be one they both own…” then, looking up to see neither of us had moved, “I’m not going to be the only one searching. Get started.”

Feeling a sense of doom settle over me I sighed and opened the top two nearest the sofa, leaving the stack nearest the kitchen for John. “Oh, bloody hell, Dimmok’s an idiot,” I couldn’t help but breathe in a sigh, once I saw the pell-mell state in which the books had been shoved in there. “No sense of order whatsoever. If he weren’t my boss I think I’d have to slap him…”

And so the three of us got to it, each with our own method of sorting. Sherlock seemed to have no actual method, alternating between crates to read a title and toss it over a respective shoulder onto the floor. John took a much slower approach, grabbing a stack to write down titles under separate columns. I took an approach somewhere between the two, stacking as many as I could into parallel piles to later go back through.

At some point one of Dimmok’s team came up with an evidence bag; “We found these at the museum; is this your writing?” John, who was closest, took the bag with a printed page full of cipher and quickly explained that they’d hoped to get someone to translate—I didn’t catch the name or the rest of the exchange, however, as I was too busy shuffling through my stacks.

By the time the sun had come up we’d found all of four pairs between us, none of which held any sort of panic-inducing threat in the first word of the fifteenth page. John abandoned sometime not long after that to fly up the stairs and promptly back down again, all the while groaning about being late on his first day. I vaguely recalled him mentioning something about a clinic in our text-conversation earlier, but my head was so full of titles and words I couldn’t be sure that was quite right.

“Take my car if you need,” I hollered after him, “Just keep the pass in the window and you won’t get a ticket.”  
“Ta, I will. Keys?” Tossing them over I wished the man luck, and soon the flat passed into silence again, save for the rustle of books and pages and the occasional mutter of a word.


	6. [Not a] Date

05 – (Not a) Date

“You’re hungry. Go eat.”

It took a few moments too long for Sherlock’s command to register, as I was still scanning titles when he’d spoken. It was sometime after noon, though I couldn’t see a clock to tell for sure, and we had been working non-stop since I’d delivered the boxes nearly twenty four hours ago. “Your stomach has been growling for the past ten minutes, it’s distracting. Go eat.”

“I’ll order in,” I placated, “Want anything?”  
“Don’t eat when I’m working; it slows me down.”

“Chinese it is, then.” When that earned me a disbelieving look I grinned, “Joking, joking. There’s a handy smoothie bar not far from here that makes great power-shakes. Hands-free with energy boosts and they’re all natural. Their takeaway cups are completely spill-proof. Want one?”

“Fine, whatever.” Sherlock had turned towards the crates again, “Though you should probably tell John you’re a vegetarian before you two become a couple.”

I was already dialing before he’d spoken again, so I only had time to give him a disbelieving look of my own before forced to pleasantly order. Once I’d hung up I crossed the room and gripped the lip of the box to get his attention. “I’m not going to ask how you figured out I’m a vegetarian, because impressive though that skill is, that’s not the point at the moment. What makes you think I want to date John?”  
“You texted him through _my_ phone, remember? Gotten quite chummy in the past few days, have you?”

“We had _one_ conversation, in which he caught me up on the case that like it or not I’m a part of,” I sighed, exasperated, “I mean, I’m sure he’s a nice bloke and all but he’s really, _really_ not my type, and I’m _really_ not looking for a relationship. Especially not one that will be as short-lived as that would likely be, considering he’s the one who gets to run off after you at the drop of a pin when you decide to go chasing down criminals.” I managed, if only just, to refrain from pointing out that the last boyfriend I’d had rather stupidly tried to steal R9’s predecessor, resulting in my being on the run for a year when word got out that I was a genius-level hacker.

Sherlock blinked a handful of times in the span of a second, clearly surprised at my response. I awkwardly retreated, suddenly unable to meet his gaze, “So no, I’m not here to schmooze you out of a partner, I’m not here to distract you with womanly wiles or some other bull like that. I’m here because I want to _help_. Okay?”

For a moment the flat had eclipsed into silence, and I briefly wondered if he’d simply tuned me out before suddenly hearing him snicker, “… _womanly wiles_?” I threw the Union Jack pillow at him good-naturedly, “Shaddup, it was the only thing that came to mind, okay?”

By the time John had returned I’d managed to get Sherlock not only to drink a decent portion of his smoothie, but rather begrudgingly admit that he actually liked it. Unfortunately, several more hours of book-searching had come and went since then, so we both felt more than a little stretched thin by that point. 

Indeed, Sherlock had all but given up on the boxes and had turned instead to his own bookshelf behind him, “A book that everybody would own…” I heard him mutter to himself, picking out a few to flip through.

John had no sooner bounded up the stairs than did Sherlock turn to him with a rather strained sigh, “I need to get some air, we’re going out tonight.”  
“Actually, I’ve ah,” John grinned rather proudly, “got a date.”  
“…What?” Sherlock frowned. “It’s when two people who like each other go out and have fun?” John supplied, barely missing a beat. I hid my snicker behind the ever-growing fort of books around me as Sherlock replied. “…That’s what I was suggesting.”  
“No, it wasn’t. At least I _hope_ not.” John then turned towards me and raised his eyebrows, “Well, you look thoroughly cornered, Kim.”

“Mentally _and_ physically,” I huffed in return, “But we’ve made quite a dent since this morning.”  
“Did you actually stop at all, or are you going off pure caffeine at this point?”  
“Stopped long enough to order in from that smoothie bar down the way, so a bit of both I guess.”

“So where are you taking her,” Sherlock interjected, stepping over one of his own piles to help me move my impromptu fort enough to get out. “Ah, cinema,” John’s response was met with one of Sherlock’s bored scoffs, “Dull, boring, predictable.” Free to move, I swiped the flyer I’d found in one of the books to show the doctor, “Well, if you want different, why don’t you try this? In London for one night only.”

His reply was a sort of half-grimace before he handed the paper back, “Not too keen to go to a dead man for dating advice, thanks.” Sherlock shrugged and snatched it to see himself, “Suit yourself. Kim, why don’t you run home and change; With John unavailable that leaves you as my scapegoat.”

“Why do I have the dooming feeling that’s going to be the case far too often in our partnership,” I groaned good-naturedly before turning to John, “Keys?”  
“Ah—keys,” he awkwardly shuffled his armful of coat before extracting the ring, and I gave the pair a parting grin, “I’ll be back as quick as possible.”

One quick skip to the flat, shower, and change of clothes later, I had just pulled back up to 221B when Sherlock came out. I rolled down my window quickly and raised an eyebrow at him, “Where’s the fire?”

“Nowhere; why do you think there’d be a fire?”  
“You seem like you’re in a bit of a rush.”  
“Yes, well, John’s already left and he’ll likely be there soon. I didn’t expect your punctuality to be lacking this late in the evening.”

“Bypassing the veiled insult for now,” I rolled my eyes and waited for him to climb into the passenger’s side before continuing, “It’s safe to assume you convinced John to take her to the circus?”  
“Obvious.”  
“Then what’s our cover story?”  
“What?”

Merging into traffic I met Sherlock’s furrowed glance briefly, “C’mon, it’s going to be their first date, right? We can’t just barge in and expect John to be okay with this. And if we’re not careful, she’s either going to assume I’m a jealous third-party or we’re on a date ourselves. If she’s a bimbo, it mightn’t be both.”

“Can’t we just _go_ and not worry about the tedious assumptions of other people?” Realizing the subject was apparently a sensitive one, I obediently dropped the matter and instead focused on finding a decent enough parking space.

“Actually, I have… _four_ in that name,” the man at the counter was saying as we walked up. Neither John nor his blonde date had yet to notice us. “No, I don’t think so,” the doctor frowned, “we only booked two.”  
“And then I phoned back and got a pair for myself and Kim.” Sherlock said, walking up behind the pair and announcing his arrival. He gave John’s date a brief once-over—not unlike the one he’d first given me—before offering his hand, “I’m Sherlock.” She glanced over at John—probably checking to see if he knew about our sudden arrival—before tentatively accepting the hand, “Uh…hi…”

“Hello.” And just like that he was gone up the stairs. I lingered and mumbled an apology I couldn’t really bring myself to feel; in all honesty, I’d kind of wanted to see what the thing was for myself, if nothing else than because it meant time _not_ spent cipher-hunting.  
“I’m just going to, um, powder my nose,” the woman said hesitantly, glancing at me. I knew that cue well enough, and managed a friendly grin, “I think I saw the restrooms just up this way. We’ll be right back.”

“Right,” John managed, and from the look on his face I had a feeling Sherlock was about to get an earful. “Sorry about barging in on your evening,” I started lamely, allowing her to link arms with me as we went. The building felt a little dodgy, I didn’t exactly blame her for not wanting to go alone. “Oh, no problem. Your date seemed pretty excited about this. I’m Sarah, by the way.”  
“Kim,” I decided not to say anything about the _date_ comment; she’d figure it out soon enough, anyway.

“ _What_ ,” Sherlock’s voice echoed through the staircase when we returned a few moments later. I gave Sarah a sidelong glance and headed up before her, hoping to catch the boys’ attentions before they said anything stupid or potentially damaging. “While I’m trying to _get off_ with Sarah,” John growled as said date followed suit. Realizing she was now right next to him John awkwardly stretched out a _hey_ , “Ready?”  
“Yeah.” Well, I couldn’t help but think, she at least got points for playing it cool.

“I honestly can’t tell,” I muttered as Sherlock and I fell into the rear, “Was that intentional?”  
“Perhaps,” though I couldn’t see it, I had a feeling the sleuth was grinning.

The space was small and quaint, with a ring of lanterns taking up most of the floor space. The stage itself was curtained off, the lights angled to better illuminate the impromptu arena. I could pick out a catwalk high overhead easily enough, with what looked like some kind of acrobatic rig I made sure to subtly point out to Sherlock. “Yes, I see it,” he muttered lowly, also looking around.

“You said circus,” John accused lowly over his shoulder at me, “This is _not_ a circus. This is… _art_.”  
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” I rolled my eyes, “The group is called the Yellow Dragon Circus. It’s not my fault it’s misleading.”

“Well, I think it’s quaint,” Sarah piped up. Before we could say anything else, however, a quiet, high drum brought my attention back to the arena. The room quieted as a woman in ornate pink ceremonial garb strode carefully into the center of the ring. She held up a hand to quell the drum’s beat before gracefully making her way to the covered bulge on the right-hand side.

The show was more than a little dull, though admittedly impressive. Escapology wasn’t that interesting to me, and I soon enough found my gaze drifting to the others in the group. If these people were our group of smugglers and murderers, then I figured I’d be better off knowing as much as I could about them.

At some point between the ‘warrior’ being strapped down and freeing himself before the released spear pierced the board behind him, I realized Sherlock had disappeared off somewhere. I didn’t have time to dwell too much on it, for as the stage hands cleared the set away the woman in pink spoke, “Ladies and gentlemen. From the distant moonlit shores of the Yangtze River, we present, for your pleasure, the deadly Chinese bird spider.”

There was something about her that commanded attention, I realized as she moved out of the circle and someone tumbled down from the rig I’d spotted earlier. While Sarah was appropriately mystified I gently nudged John, “Sherlock’s gone off. I’m going to go see if I can find him.”

“Should I go with you,” he asked worriedly, half-distracted by the display. I shook my head, “You’re on a date. Don’t worry—this place is small, I’m sure I can find him easily enough.”  
I felt a little guilty for lying like that, but I just got a seriously antsy feeling about that group. Making my way quickly down the stairs I hoped I still had a tablet in the car—I could call R9 and patch through the CCTV feed that way, but nothing kept the edge off quite like manual hacking.

A hand on my shoulder promptly killed all thoughts of numbers and codes. Turning quickly on my heel I realized it was one of the stage hands with an appropriately chaste curiosity about him, “Was there some problem, ma’am? You left in quite a hurry.”

“Oh, no. The show was wonderful. I just realized I think I left my car unlocked, so…”  
“What a shame,” that was the woman in pink. I spun to face her and was met with a deadly fixated stare. “It isn’t every day we get visited by Lunar Anne.” Looking between the stage hand and the performer, I felt dread sink into the pit of my stomach—no one was supposed to know about that anymore. The feeling intensified when she pulled a gun to my forehead. “I’m afraid I must insist that you stay.” Then, nodding to the other over my shoulder, “Take her keys.”

The man at the window that had given John the tickets looked antsy to say the least, when he was handed the captured key ring, “What do I do with them.”  
“Find party of Holmes and give them a message. Miss _Kim_ apologizes, but something came up.”

Trying quite unsuccessfully to quell my fear I managed a thick swallow, “A-a-and what’s going to happen to me, exactly?”  
“You, my dear, will come with me.”


	7. Lunar Anne

06 – Lunar Anne

Out of everything that I missed about being a major name in the cyber world, the occasional random kidnapping wasn’t one of them. Nor was letting my hair get so obnoxiously long or restricting myself to paper-pushing jobs, but being bound in the back of a moving vehicle wasn’t the time nor place for such thoughts.

These creeps were serious, I’d figured that much out already. After taking me away from prying eyes the first thing they’d done was remove all electronics off my person. I’d then rather promptly been shoved into someone’s boot, and through the back of the seats I could hear angry bickering in rapid-paced Chinese.

I was hauled into one of the old tramways and shoved rather promptly to the ground beside an overlarge crate. My captors were still bickering, and I could see my mobile in one of their hands, being gestured with rather violently. Awkwardly I sat up as much as I could with my wrists and ankles bound and cleared my throat, “You know, if you brought me here to hack something for you, I’m going to actually need a computer. And light. And to use my hands?”

“Do not flatter yourself, Miss Anne,” the woman in pink was back, this time decked out in something that better suited a spy movie—sunglasses and all. “If we wanted your skills we could have easily gotten them without such a hassle.”  
“Then if I may be frank—what the _hell_ am I doing here?”

“All will be revealed in time,” the woman said dismissively, walking away. I heard my phone go off before promptly being silenced by the stage-hand that still held it. “You ought to know I never ignore a call. They’ll keep trying until I answer—or better yet they’ll assume the worst. If it’s my boss he can track it—even when its off, even if you smash it into a million tiny pieces. If it’s John or Sherlock—well, I don’t think I need to tell you creeps how brilliant they are.”

I was rewarded with a rather painfully steel-toed kick to the gut for that one. It _would_ figure I’d keep my panic-induced-sass even after everything else. The phone went off again, however, and I found myself propped up with a gun to my head before I was allowed to answer.

_“Kim! You weren’t answering—are you alright?”_  
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just—my phone was charging downstairs, so I didn’t hear it go off. The ringer gets a little funny when it’s plugged in.”  
 _“Why’d you leave us your keys?”_

I didn’t need the gun butting pointedly against my temple to remember to lie convincingly. “You were the one on the date, I figured I’d leave you the car to make up for us gatecrashing.” I tried my best to rather pointedly not use any names. There was a light silence before John spoke again, _“Where are you—is that fire I hear in the background?”_

“Nah, I’m making popcorn. I’ve been told my kitchen has funny acoustics.” Of course it’s fire—hobo-style barrels of it, even. The lady flashed her watch at me pointedly. “Listen, I’ve gotta go. I’ve got things I need to wrap up for work. I’ll stop by in the morning, though?”  
 _“You’re sure you’re okay?”_

“Positive. Go end your date on a high note, kay? Bye.” I leveled a glare at the lady as the phone was pulled away. “Happy? No one will come looking for me now. You’re free to use whatever schemes you desire.”

I was rather stupidly ignored after that. The time drizzled by slower than molasses, and I nearly found myself nodding off when a commotion started. A thoroughly kayoed John and Sarah were brought in and tied down to a pair of chairs—my indignant protest of not getting a chair myself earned me a much more solid kick to the ribs and a gag.

“Time to make you look pretty, Anne,” the lady cooed gleefully, holding a length of chain out. By the time John stirred I had been forced to my feet with my arms chained over my head.

“A book is like a magic garden carried in your pocket,” she greeted the possibly concussed doctor. The quartet of kidnapers made an impressively intimidating force, standing in formation as they were. Clearly the leader, she strode forward and pulled up her sunglasses, “Ancient Chinese proverb, Mister Holmes.”

“I…” I could see John’s slow blink even despite the glaring fire between us, “I’m not Sherlock Holmes.”  
“Forgive me if I do not take your word for it.”

“You’re a fool,” I growled through my gag, bringing the pair’s attention onto me. Now I could _definitely_ see John’s disbelieving blink, “…Kim?!” I tried for an apologetic sort of shrug, but the end result was mostly a grimace of pain. The lady took advantage of the distraction to pull John’s wallet out from his jacket, flipping through with a rather pointedly raised eyebrow, “Debit card, name of _S. Holmes_. Check of five thousand pounds made out to name of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Tickets from the theater collected by you, name of Holmes…” with each rather conveniently placed evidence John attempted an excuse, though he still seemed to be fighting a battle against his concussion. 

Their discussion got quieter, too quiet for me to hear, but I couldn’t manage to contain a whimper when I caught the glint of the gun leveling to John’s head. Sherlock would _kill_ me if I somehow got his flat mate shot.

Now ignoring the discussion completely I focused on using my shoulder to un-gag myself before turning my attention to my bound hands. Duct tape was hell to get out of, but it seemed they weren’t taking any chances with me. If I pulled too hard I could potentially ruin my hands, thereby throwing any and all hope of ever hacking again down the drain.

“There’s a simple way of proving he’s not lying,” I called desperately, effectively pulling their attention onto me. “My phone. R9. Call the number labeled Sherlock on speaker. Or something. If you can’t hear it ring then we’re telling the truth, right?”

“Or it just means he doesn’t have his phone on him,” the lady fired back, turning back towards John. Thankfully henchmen seemed still just as stupid as they were a year ago—none of them noticed my phone light up on the crate beside me. It was a long-shot, using an R9 command so openly—especially one I hadn’t exactly tested yet—but considering we were dealing with murdering smugglers I knew it was worth a try.

The moment I heard it pick up I spoke louder than necessary, hoping I only came off as someone stalling, “So where are we, anyway?”  
“Didn’t we gag you,” the closest guy frowned, “You’re supposed to shut up and stand there.” I managed a shrug and looked away, “Oh, sure. Ignore me. Ignore John. And you’ve gagged Sarah, so obviously you don’t much care what she has to say, either.”

A punch to the gut had me doubled over as far as I could. I hoped to hell the call was actually going through, and that Sherlock was still listening. “You know, for master assassins or whatever the hell you lot are, you’re not entirely fair. Four of you armed gits against three rather heavily bound civilians? Not exactly even odds.”

I rather promptly lost all courage to continue when one of them turned their gun onto me. “A-armed. Right. I should probably shut up and remember that.” I managed in a gulp. I saw the screen on my phone go dark—call ended. Regaining some of my equilibrium I kept an even, hateful glare at my rather determined guard before a cacophony of cries drew my attention away towards Sarah. The other two henchmen had unveiled one of the shadowed objects around us to reveal the same crossbow-weapon thing from the performance—and they were dragging John’s date right into the line of fire. I still couldn’t quite hear what the lady in charge was saying, but I could sympathize completely with Sarah’s panicked wailing as the sandbag was split.

“Lady and gentlemen. From the distant moonlit shores of NW1, we present for your pleasure; Sherlock Holmes, pretty companion in a death-defying act.”

“ _ **Please**_ ,” John cried shortly. The lady ignored him in favor of putting something in Sarah’s lap and sneering loudly, “You’ve seen the act before, how dull for you! You know how it ends.”  
“I’m not Sherlock Holmes!” John yelled in a clear last-ditch effort. The lady finally turned towards him, glaring, “I don’t believe you!”

“You should, you know!” I didn’t think I would ever be so glad to hear the sleuth. “Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him!” As Sherlock busied the others with a high-speed explanation I used the distraction to my advantage and kneed my guard in the crotch.

Gripping the chain tight I jumped, kicking him down and vaulting myself onto the crate beside me for better leverage. I managed to rip the tape away with my teeth enough to break free and just set about my ankles when I heard the crossbow fire. Looking up with a sense of dread I realized it wasn’t Sarah with a spear through her chest but one of the kidnappers. Face twisted in clear shock he crumpled, and the other two scattered.

It was _over_.

 

I stared into the mug I’d been offered some time later, thankful that Sherlock seemed patient. He had driven us to 221B before John took Sarah home, once again borrowing my car. “My name is Kimberly-Anne Wilson. Doyle was my mum’s name. I was a hacker for hire. Companies, governments, third-world countries—they called me Lunar Anne. I’d created a program that gives me instant access.”

“To what?” Sherlock prompted softly. I met his gaze levelly, “Anything. In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king, and with R9 there isn’t a lock my key won’t fit into.” Swallowing my gaze dropped again to my still-shaking hands, “Unfortunately, something as dangerous as that makes enemies easily. About a year ago, I got in bad with a small American hacker cell. They weren’t much but I refused to join in with them. Things got out of hand, so I made a deal with the CIA. They would give me a clean slate and in return, Lunar Anne had to retire for good.”

“But you kept the system.”  
“Sort of. The original was called UAK—Universal Access Key. After I came back to London I rebooted it into a sort of all-out personal system—Reboot one. She’s gotten some upgrades over time. Home security, interlinked electronics, constantly secure network. It’s thanks to R9 I could call you tonight.”

“I see.” Sherlock sat back in his armchair, steepled his fingers under his chin in thought, “Is there any way for someone to get their hands on this key?”  
“Not without three things; R9, me, and my car keys.” At his frown I elaborated, “The music note keychain? It’s a USB drive. To use the key, you’d have to plug the USB straight into R9’s hard drive, select the correct folder out of about a million viruses, and put in the correct password within ten seconds of selection. If you’re off even by the slightest on any of those steps the drive fries.”

We elapsed into a light silence after that, and I tentatively picked up the page of glaring yellow symbols in front of me. “…All this for a hairpin?” I blinked, realizing what the decoded message meant. “Apparently.”

“Well, that certainly explains why they kept asking for _it_ …” Sherlock gave a noncommittal grunt, still lost in thought before not-so-subtly changing the topic. “You realize, if you continue to be of help, this may happen again.”

“…I think,” I said slowly, “Given tonight, the three of us have proven we can handle ourselves. Given my choice in hobby, this wasn’t the first time I’d been kidnapped. It won’t be the last, either.”

“You ought to go home, get some sleep. John and I will need to get to the bank tomorrow to wrap this case up. Even with your tardiness, you should be able to drop us off on your way to work.”

“Assuming I still have work,” I corrected without any real heat to it as I stood off the sofa, “Dimmok looked like he wanted to strangle me the whole time. Then again, I s’pose I didn’t really do that good a job of keeping you off his back.”

“He’ll get over it,” Sherlock waved dismissively. “See you in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: There's a quote in here that Kim says, one that some might recognize as being said by a character in Season Two. THIS IS DELIBERATE. It is also DELIBERATELY altered.


	8. Promotion

07 – Promotion

 

“You wanted to see me, sir?” Dimmok looked haggard, slumped in his office chair as though willing the black leather to swallow him whole. That last case with the serial rapist had worn all of us down, and it didn’t help that he was too stubborn to go to Sherlock for help.

It also didn’t help that I was constantly pulled away to help Sherlock on a completely different case involving hacked CCTV, and a more-than-little-demented killer who had framed her sister of running her husband down with a lawnmower. I loved helping the pair, of course, but even after months of knowing him the idiot still seemed convinced he could kidnap me at a moment’s notice for those sorts of things.

Dimmok nodded, lips pursed, and tiredly waved me to the chair opposite. It wasn’t until I’d sat and stilled that he spoke up, and I could tell he _really_ didn’t like what he was about to say. “You’ve done good work in the Yard, despite your…frequent lapses of punctuality.” I failed to withhold my grimace, “Am I being sacked, sir?”

Improbably, he gave a sort of tired chuckle, “No, Doyle. You’re not fired.” Clearly stalling, he shuffled the papers around his desk and cleared his throat, “No the um. My wife is pregnant, and her mum wants her off in the country. Away from all the excitement, you know. So I’m taking a few years off.”

“And what about the team, sir?” I asked quietly. I could tell this wasn’t easy for the man—short-tempered and prideful though he was, Dimmok was still my boss, and taken away from the craziness of the Yard he actually wasn’t half bad. “Broken up,” the smile he gave me was all business and resigned fact, “Lucky for you, Lestrade’s willing to take you on.”

If that wasn’t a red flag, I didn’t know what was. When I’d applied to Lestrade’s team before they were overstaffed. I couldn’t help but feel slightly used, as though Sherlock was involved. “Does this have anything to do with the VanCoon case, sir?”

“Dunno,” Dimmok’s shoulders relaxed, and I knew the worst of the news was over, “He didn’t say. But I told you from the start—that Holmes fellow’s an arrogant sod. And since I’m no longer your boss, I can tell you freely—you’ll want to stay away from him as much as you can, or one of these days you’ll be just as bad.”

I was on my feet and breathing hard before I even realized it. Dimmok looked as surprised as I felt at the sudden flare of anger, and I forced my fists to release, “Well. Since you’re no longer my boss, _sir_ , I feel no guilt whatsoever in telling you to _sod off_ and mind your own business.” Stopping in the doorway, I turned back with a smile, “And good luck with the wife, sir.”

Once I’d cleared my cubicle and wiped my computer—wouldn’t do to leave something stupid or dangerous where some newbie could find it—I made my way down a floor, where a strict but friendly sergeant named Donovan showed me to a clean desk. I just had time to set my box down when DI Lestrade showed up, “Are you Kim Doyle, then?”

“Reporting for duty, sir. Though I’m not exactly sure what that duty _is_ , to be honest.” Lestrade gave me a once-over before nodding shortly, “Follow me. There’s a lot we need to bring you up to speed on.”

His office wasn’t nearly as superfluous as Dimmok’s had been—furniture of necessity and no higher quality than anything I’d seen out in the labyrinth. “I understand you worked with Sherlock Holmes on that cipher case a few months back. Dimmok tells me there weren’t any problems with that?”

“Problems, sir?” For crying out loud, I was a _paper pusher_ for a reason. I wasn’t about to go on crazy cases just because I’d been thrown into a haphazard friendship with two idiots. “Well, he didn’t deduce you into a sniveling mess and you didn’t box his ears off,” Though he’d kept a straight face, Lestrade’s grin was prominent through his tone of voice and the glint in his eyes. I couldn’t help but smile myself, “Well, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you about that particular temptation.”

“You keep a level head in a crisis, Kim. And you don’t suffer fools easily—even if they are Sherlock bloody Holmes. And considering how often we end up working with him, I could use more people like you on my team.”

“And what would I be doing, sir? I don’t know anything about crimes or forensics or—”  
“You don’t have to,” Lestrade interrupted reassuringly, “You can keep on doing exactly what you’ve applied for, if that makes you happy. But Sherlock—being Sherlock—rubs people the wrong way. I figure having someone who can put up with him might get the others to at least cooperate again.”

I stared at my hands in my lap, mulling it over before nodding stiffly, “You should know, though, that I probably won’t survive on strict hours. My punctuality is crap in the mornings…and after that case I’ve sort of…well, Sherlock tends to kidnap me for help with some of his cases.”

Lestrade tensed warily, clearly floored by that admission. “What kind of _help_?”  
“Usually? I end up driving him and John ‘cross London and back. And…”  
“And…?” He prompted. When I mustered the courage to look the older man in the eyes he looked wary but more than a little curious. “If I tell you, do you swear not to lock me up for it?”  
“Well—”  
“ _OR_ tell anyone else?”

After a moment he nodded, so I took a deep breath, “I’m sort of a freelance hacker. Retired. But I’ve used it to help Sherlock on a few of his cases. That’s sort of how he got the CCTV recording on that lawnmower case last week?”

To my utmost surprise, Lestrade’s face split into a large grin as he offered me a less-than-professional handshake, “Well, now Fred’s _definitely_ not getting you back. Welcome to the team, Kim.”

 

Throughout the rest of my shift I came to prefer Lestrade’s team far better than the one I’d left. The whole floor had a more casually friendly air to it, and knowing that I was free to pretty much do whatever made it easier to fit in. By the time I’d clocked out I’d already gotten John to convince Sherlock to stay in, and after a quick detour I pulled easily into the empty space in front of 221B.

Mrs. Hudson was at the door, as usual, and I made sure my surprises were well hidden as I made my way up. “Boys?” A strained silence permeated the sitting room; Sherlock was brooding on the sofa and John was rather pointedly ignoring him in the kitchen. “Okay, what did I miss?”

“Sherlock doesn’t like that I made him stay in because you were coming over,” John murmured in a sigh, shaking his head at said sleuth before noticing the bag in my hand and frowning questioningly. “Well, tough luck if you thought you could get rid of me that easily, Sherlock,” I chuckled fondly, setting the bag on what little table space there was opposite the microscope. “Don’t touch that, I’m working on something important!” Sherlock growled suddenly, vaulting up onto his feet and literally stepping over the coffee table. “Did it _sound_ like I touched it,” I raised my eyebrows pointedly, receiving a predictable glower in return. “I came over to celebrate, we couldn’t exactly do that if you were off who knows where in London.”

“What are we celebrating?” John frowned, leaning against the counter. I grinned, “The end of dealing with Dimmok. Lestrade promoted me.”

“Kim, that’s fantastic!” I allowed the doctor to scoop me into a one-armed hug and chuckled at the kiss on the temple. “And he said he wouldn’t have a problem with my helping you lot out, either.” But when I turned back towards Sherlock, I felt my grin vanish, “…Why isn’t that good news?”

“Oh, don’t let me spoil your fun. Please, feel free to waltz into my home where I’m held captive to bring your fancy cider and cheap biscuits and celebrate an obvious eventuality. It’s not as though we have more important things to deal with.” The bitter verbal lashing wasn’t what I would have expected in the slightest. “Excuse me for wanting to spend time with my friends after getting promoted!”

“You are _not_ my _friend_ ,” Sherlock exploded in childish venom. “I brought you into this because your skills are useful and your attitude more bearable than most other people. So kindly stop muddling things up with your emotions!”

It took two deep breaths for me to manage not to explode right back at him. “Sherlock, maybe that was a little too far,” John said quietly. I shook my head, “No. It’s okay. You don’t have to come to my aide all the time, John. Sherlock’s spoken his mind, and now it’s my turn. We can’t all have massive intellect like yours, and my emotions are what ground me. Caring keeps me _sane_ , probably just as much as fact does for you. I may not be your friend, Sherlock Holmes, but like it or not _you're_ one of _mine_ , and if you have a problem with that you can either _deal_ with that or kick me to the curb.”  
Swallowing I dropped my gaze, rather pointedly not looking at either of them as I attempted a more cheerful tone with little success, “Well, I think I’ve overstayed my welcome for the moment. I’m going for a walk.”

I wasn’t surprised that John caught my elbow half-way down the stairs. “Will you be back,” He settled on resignedly after a moment, despite the millions of other questions I could see clouding his thoughts. In response I smiled, handed him my keys, and headed out into the chill night air.


	9. Big Brother

08 – Big Brother

 

There was a black, unmarked car parked in front of my own, with a rather poise lady waiting leant against it. “Are you Kimberly-Anne?” Raising my eyebrows in surprise I looked her over—she looked more like a PA than a kidnapper. I vaguely recalled John asking if I’d been stalked at all the first few weeks after the VanCoon case and folded my arms over my chest, “Who wants to know?”

“A concerned party.”  
“If this is a kidnapping, you’re doing a piss-poor job of it.” That got a laugh out of her, “No, not a kidnapping. My boss would like a word with you.”

“Will I be able to keep my mobile?” For some reason I felt as though I could hold this woman to her word. So, after being reassured that I would not be touched, I went against John’s advice to run the other way and climbed into the offered back seat. She went around to the other side, and the car pulled silently away. “So do you have a name or should I just call you _ma’am_?” Following her example I’d pulled my own mobile out, turning R9 onto mute and prepping for a vocal scan before slipping it back into my jacket pocket. “Anthea’s fine.”

“Anthea. That’s very pretty. It’s safe to assume you can’t tell me your boss’ name?”  
“Not really.”

The rest of the ride was silent, and the car pulled straight into an abandoned warehouse by the docks. The room was abandoned, though I could pick out at least six cameras trained in, save for a tall, albeit portly man leaning quite comfortably on a brolly.

“Well, you must be the boss, then,” I assumed, leisurely crossing the open space before slipping my hands into my jacket pockets. “I’d introduce myself, but you already know who I am, don’t you?”

“You’re a smart woman, Miss Doyle,” the man raised his eyebrows appreciatively. I subtly thumbed the _go_ button on my mobile and titled my head as though genuinely interested in what he had to say. “Consider myself an interested party. What is your relation to Sherlock Holmes?”

“He’s my friend,” I shrugged simply. The man gave a sneering chuckle, “Please. He doesn’t _have_ friends.” I met his gaze squarely, tilting my chin up in challenge, “Maybe not. But I do.”

His responding expression vaguely reminded me of someone who had swallowed vinegar, as he pulled a small pocketbook out of his jacket, flipping slowly to a page. “I see. Quite a trusting young lady, aren’t you? Three months of sporadic meetings with them and you freely invite yourself over to their flat on a regular basis. Today as well, after a promotion at the Yard this afternoon, it says here. Congratulations.”

Feeling the light buzz against my fingertips I raised my eyebrows and idly ran my tongue over the edge of my teeth—two could play at that game. “I see,” I mimicked, pulling the mobile out in a bored fashion. The name on the screen made me relax marginally, “Well, that certainly explains a lot.”

“ _What_ does.” His sudden edge wasn’t surprising—he seemed the sort of man who was used to having everything go the way he designed. I called the file to hand quickly, idly giving him an innocent shrug as I scanned its contents, “You know, if you’re going to try pulling the information card on somebody, you should probably make sure they can’t one-up you. Mycroft Holmes, government official with admittedly impressive puppeteer skills involving the secret service, CIA, and—oh, look, you’ve put a lot of interest into the government itself. And you, what, scare off all Sherlock’s _playmates_ in your free time?”

The controlled calm wasn’t quite so controlled any more. Mycroft swallowed thickly, “And how, exactly, do you know all this?” Looking up I blinked slowly at the man before glancing around—the driver was still inside the car, and Anthea looked just as surprised as Mycroft seemed. “You mean to tell me, you brought me here to antagonize me into either staying away from or, more likely, spying on your little brother, and all without knowing who I am?”  
“Of course I know; Kimberly-Anne Doyle, age twenty five, recently promoted to work under Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Am I wrong?”

“Only in that you didn’t dig deep enough, apparently.” It took all of five seconds to stop and wipe the recording from the cameras, and when I looked up again I regarded Mycroft honestly, “Let’s make a deal, you and I. Keep your nose out of my life and I won’t be tempted to do something potentially illegal.”

“I see you haven’t given me much leeway in the matter, have you,” he gave a sour smile but offered me a hand anyway. “Let’s just say I know how to get what I want,” I managed a much more pleasant smile in return and withdrew as soon as polite, “So will Miss Anthea be taking me back, or am I going to be left to my own devices?”

Just as I’d reentered the car, my phone went off again—text alert.  
 **John is of the opinion I need to apologize for pointing out the truth. –SH**  
I couldn’t help but grin, feeling much better about the whole ordeal after putting Mycroft in his place. 

_If either of us should apologize, it’s me. I shouldn’t have shoved my way in like that. I’m sorry. – Kim_   
**Apology accepted. Though if it’s any consolation I am grateful I’ll no longer have to deal with the stupidity and dullness that is Dimmok.**   
_Ha. Yeah, alright, you berk. You really don’t have to apologize. I know it’s painful when you’re so obviously right all the time._   
**I AM right all the time.**   
_Of course you are. So…are we okay?_   
**And here I was thinking you weren’t as stupid as the rest of the population. But yes, if it makes you feel better. To use your laymen’s terms, we are…okay.**   
_Good. I’ll be back soon—tell John not to break into the chocolates without me!_   
**I fear you may be too late for that.**

Ignoring Anthea’s rather startled stare I let out a loud bark of laughter that seemed too difficult to end. It felt good to honestly laugh again, after all the tension that had been settling around and disrupting what used to be a fairly standard routine of life.


	10. Lost and Found

09 – Lost and Found

 

Things fell into an eerily calm sort of routine after that. Sherlock’s cases dwindled, and to keep busy at the office I found myself swamped in a project of my own.

“Cut down a whole forest, did we,” Lestrade grinned in greeting, peering cheekily over one of the taller stacks of portfolios. The floor was quiet in the late evening—most everyone else had taken off for the day. I hummed, “You certainly seem to have, yes.”

“You know you don’t really have to do any of this nonsense, right?”  
“You’re saying that _now_.” I fed another sheet into the scanner and jabbed a finger at him mock-accusingly, “I’m going to turn your files paperless if it kills me.”

“Keep skipping your break and it just might,” picking up a portfolio at random he swatted me in the shoulder with it before perching on Jeff’s desk across the aisle to flip through it, “are these all cold cases?! Bloody hell.”

“Tell me about it. But, once I get these digitized and the system upgraded it’ll be able to compare them and see if any match other files. If it works the way the model did we should find at least 28% of these suckers suddenly solvable.”

“You’re bloody brilliant, you are. No wonder Sherlock snatched you up when he did.” Greg Lestrade, I’d quickly come to learn, was very much an overgrown ten-year-old playing copper. He certainly looked the part, sat on the edge of the desk with a large, friendly grin. “Don’t let him hear you say that,” I grinned in return, pulling the shredder close again, “You make it sound like we’re an item or something.”

His grin faltered, “Aren’t you?”  
“Obviously not. Sherlock’s very dedicated to what he does, and even if I wanted to I wouldn’t even _try_ to get in the way of that.” In the silence that followed I realized I might’ve said a little too much on the matter. I gave a tired sigh and managed a smile, “Well, that sounded worse than it really is. Honest…why don’t you call it a night?”  
“Are you sure?”  
“Yeah, I’ll do a couple more and lock up.”

Reluctantly, Lestrade stood and set the portfolio back into its pile, “Alright, but don’t stay too late. Just because things are idle now doesn’t mean they’ll stay that way. I want you ready to roll tomorrow morning. Clear?”  
“Yessir,” I grinned, offering a cheeky salute that earned me a chuckle. 

It may have been later than I was planning as I crossed the car park. The overhead lights had turned off with office hours, and the bitingly cold air of autumn had my hands shaking as I dug for my keys.

The attack came before I could so much as blink. Shadowed figures on either side grabbed me by the wrist, and I just managed the glimpse of a third when something conked me on the back of the head, hard. I saw a sharp, predatorial smirk glint in the moonlight, and then the world faded to black.

 

_“There’s been a massive explosion in central London. As yet there are no reports of any casualties, and the police are unable to say if there’s any suspicion of terrorist involvement. Police have issued an emergency number for friends and relatives…”_

Through the pounding pain in my head I could hear the telly’s low mumble. I recognized the voice as one of the news casters, but when I managed to work my eyes open there wasn’t a TV in sight.

I was strapped into a car, seatbelt fastened and hands cuffed to the steering wheel. A man in a hazmat suit was fiddling with wires on my chest, and when I looked down it was to discover an explosive rig right out of a James Bond film. I inhaled to scream but a gun aimed between my eyes promptly silenced me. The handcuffs were undone, and a phone and pager were thrust into my free hands. The car door slammed as the man left, and I looked at the pager in some confusion.

**If you want to live you will follow my exact orders** , flashed across the screen. Trying not to panic, I obediently picked up the mobile and dialed an unfamiliar number. **Don’t even think about doing anything funny, either.** When the unmistakable red laser of someone’s scope made its way up my arm and straight onto the syntax I lost all semblance of control and broke out a choked gasp of tears—the first, I had a feeling, of many. Much to my chagrin the blubbering only got worse when I called and, after several rings, a familiar voice answered softly. _“Hello.”_

“H-hello, Sexy,” I hiccupped, reading off the pager and trying to stifle my tears. _“Who’s this?”_ He didn’t recognize my voice—that almost made it worse. “I’ve…sent you…a little puzzle. Just to say… _hi_.” I blinked the tears back as much as I could, doing my best to repeat exactly despite my shaking and blurred vision and general worst-scenario adrenaline rush. He didn’t recognize me, and I was going to die because of it. _“Who’s talking? Why are you crying?”_

“I-I’m not crying, I’m typing. And this…s-s-stupid bitch is r-reading it out.”  
 _“That sounds like Kim,”_ I heard Lestrade mutter quietly in the background—wonderful. I was on speaker phone for who knew how many people. That didn’t exactly help calm me any, nor did Sherlock’s mutter of _“The curtain rises.”_  
 _“What?”_ John’s voice demanded. _“Nothing—I’ve been expecting this for some time.”_

Oh, that definitely didn’t help. Nor did my next issued line. “Twelve hours to solve my puzzle, Sherlock…or I’m going to be...so…naughty…” The scope laser was back, and I found myself irrationally, distantly thankful for the command to hang up as I promptly lost all semblance of control.

The hours passed gruelingly. It was nigh impossible to forget that I was strapped to explosives, and though the pager had long-since gone blank after my last instruction to **do nothing until I say otherwise** the car’s radio seemed to have been wired to pick up a feed from somewhere within Lestrade’s floor. While John and Sherlock had left to solve the _little puzzle_ Lestrade had left and returned and determined that I wasn’t home, no one had seen me go home, and my car was still in the lot. Some of the more friendly members of the team had gathered together and tried to trace my mobile, but after Lestrade had left to follow the signal I learned that my captors had locked all of my personal effects into the car, keys included. 

I was then subjected to Lestrade’s side of a rather tense phone call with John, wherein the DI raved at how ridiculous Sherlock was being, not caring that I was kidnapped somewhere and under the care of a bomber. As the hours ticked away, I came to the realization that I couldn’t blame Sherlock for that in the slightest. Any of it, actually. If I hadn’t been so stubborn to remain friends I wouldn’t have been targeted. And it wasn’t as if Sherlock had _planned_ for a bomber to come waltzing into London. He solved cases brilliantly for a living; he was bound to get noticed eventually.

While I was being honest with myself, somewhere at the nine-hour mark, Sherlock distancing himself from my involvement made perfect sense in that insanely Holmsian way. Dwelling on me being stuck here would do nothing but waste time, time that would be much better spent solving whatever the bomber had presented him with.

The radio had long-since shut off into silence, and just when I was about to give up the near-forgotten pager in my hand vibrated.  
 **No sleeping on the job, sweetheart** , it read. **Time to make another phone call**. Doom settled into the pit of my stomach. Either Sherlock had done it or the bomber got bored. Either way I could still end up dead, I knew.

Shaking with fatigue and renewed dread I re-dialed the given number. I obediently didn’t wait for a reply this time, “Well done, you. Come and get me.” **I’ll be seeing you again, sweetheart. Give Sexy my love.**  
 _“Kim!”_ John sounded more than a little relieved. _“Where are you?”_ Sherlock jumped in commandingly, _“Tell us where you are.”_

**Go on then, sweetheart. You’re free.**

I gave a relieved sigh when the screen went blank again, “I-I’m behind the supermarket near your flat. The back corner, behind the bins.”  
 _“Alright, just stay calm, Kim. We’ll get you out of there, alright?”_ John was in full-out doctor mode, and in the background I could hear Sherlock calling Lestrade. “Bring a bomb squad,” I heard myself say quickly. I swallowed down my nerves once I noticed the laser was gone and found myself nodding along to John’s reassurances. “Sher—are you still there?” I cut through softly. Silence, then, _“Yes—he can hear you, Kim.”_

“Thank you,” impossibly, the tears renewed, though the constricting weight that had settled over the hours was gone. “ _Thank you_ , Sherlock.”

_“They’re on their way, Kim. Just hold tight a little longer,”_ Sherlock’s mutter was barely audible and appropriately soothing. I had a feeling he thought I was delirious—maybe I was. At least, I couldn’t help but think, I was _safe_.


	11. Full Circle

10 – Full Circle

 

“…and decked her out in enough explosives to take down a _house_.”

In the otherwise noisy labyrinth, it was surprisingly easy to pick Lestrade’s voice out. He, John, and Sherlock were all in his office with the door wide open—surprisingly. I cradled the mug someone had handed me closer to my chest and shuffled my way down the aisle towards them, ignoring the stares that followed. 

Once they’d gotten me out of there and questioned me I was put under strict orders to go home and lock myself in. I managed to obey said orders for all of ten minutes before the dreams and paranoia started. So, wanting to be anywhere but alone I’d decided to go back to the Yard and, if nothing else, hunt down whatever it was that gave the bomber a live feed of the place.

“And if she deviated by even one word the sniper would have set her off,” Sherlock was saying as I tentatively leaned against the door. None of them had yet to notice my arrival. “Or if you hadn’t solved the case.”

“Oh…Elegant!”  
“ _Sherlock_!”

“It was, though, wasn’t it,” I made my presence known softly. Sherlock stiffened but otherwise kept his back to me, and John and Lestrade were at my side almost in an instant. “I told you to stay at home!”  
“You should be in bed. You’re in no state to be up and about yet.” Something in my stare had both of them backing off slightly when I replied just as quietly, “I couldn’t sleep.”

John’s face softened in understanding, and he gently led me by the shoulders to Sherlock’s vacated chair. Lestrade sat heavily into his own, “What was the point? Why would anyone _do_ this?” Sherlock scoffed, “Oh…I can’t be the only person in the world that gets _bored_.”

“Should you be here for this,” John asked me worriedly. I managed a smile and squeezed his hand, “Right now, I’d rather not be anywhere else.”

“Kim’s right, she shouldn’t be alone,” Sherlock agreed just as distractedly as every other response he’d yet made. When the pink mobile on the desk went off, he crossed the room and, surprisingly, dropped his coat onto me as he grabbed it. Not bothering to hide my smile of gratitude I burrowed myself into the warmth, focusing on the familiar texture and lingering scent as the boys talked through whatever the bomber had left next. I pointedly ignored the flurry that followed, only snapping out of my stupor at the sudden hand on my shoulder. “Will you be okay here,” John asked worriedly. I managed a nod, handing the coat back, “The car was hooked up to a live feed of this floor. I want to find it. You boys just focus on the work.”

John’s parting hug wasn’t out of the ordinary—Sherlock’s immediately following, however, had me properly floored. “Try not to do anything else stupid, Kim,” He murmured. As much as I appreciated the act, I felt a little guilty forcing him into the intimate contact. “You don’t have to pretend for me, Sher,” I smiled honestly, disengaging, “We’re okay. Just—promise me you’ll be careful?”

“I always am.” He stepped into a more familiar distance and chuckled at my parting, “And when you find him, give him hell for me!”

I spent the span of the next two _puzzles_ meticulously combing every nook and cranny of the floor, and by the time a very tired Lestrade had returned numberless hours later I’d just managed to pull a wireless microphone out of the ceiling behind an overhead sprinkler.

“Well, you’ve been busy, I see,” Lestrade greeted. I hummed, keeping my eyes on the mike as I carefully climbed down off the stepladder. Dropping into the first available computer I made short work of cutting the feed and promptly snapped the thing in two. When I looked up Lestrade seemed warily impressed, “You can hack _that_ fast even after everything that’s happened?”

“Like most other people, Lestrade, I learned my trade in Uni. Unlike most others I did so in my spare time. You think I’m dangerous on a normal day; wait until I’ve gone a week without sleep or proper nutrition. That’s usually when terrorist cells in the Middle East unexplainably lose power and all forms of communications.” The smile probably was a bit much, but it was admittedly amusing to recollect on the prime of my hacking career.  
Lestrade grabbed me by the elbow and none too gently pulled me into his office, “Okay, what’s wrong?” Dropping obediently into the better of the three chairs I frowned at that, “Wrong?”

“You’re not acting yourself, Kim. If this is you on caffeine I’m tempted to ban you from it. You’re a bloody mess and all but dead on your feet!” Involuntarily I curled in on myself, recalling with a little too much vividness the weight of the explosives and the light of the laser. “Those were probably not the best choice of words,” Lestrade apologized softly, running a hand through his hair. I closed my eyes tight and nodded, hearing him sigh tiredly. “Look, whatever happened out there—it’s over. He’s not going to target you again, and this place is like a fortress. The only reason they could get to you in the first place was because you were in the car park, right?”

“Right,” I heard myself admitting, relaxing marginally. Lestrade nodded, “Right. Now, why don’t you try and get some shut-eye? I’ll have Sherlock check in with you once this is over, and he and John can take you home.”

Despite my best intentions I managed to, indeed, nod off against the desk. When I next awoke it was dark out. There was no way of knowing how much time had passed, though someone at some point had draped one of those bright orange shock blankets over my shoulders. I felt stiff from the awkward position, and my arms, neck, and spine all groaned in protest when I stretched. Still, despite my sore muscles I felt more like myself than I had since the whole mess had started.

John had left a note on the desk for me, briefly filling me in that they were still working on things and had agreed it was best to let me sleep. There was food in the mini fridge that I was instructed to eat before anything else, I wasn’t to leave the floor without one of the team that I explicitly trusted, and they’d be back once the whole thing was over to pick me up.

The door opened then, and a tired but pleased Lestrade poked his head in, “Well, sleepy head, it’s about time. Feeling better?” I grinned, surprised at how easily the gesture came, “Loads. Slept like the dead. What’s the update?”  
“Well, the boys discovered that the lost Vermeer painting’s a fake. Then they went home to wait for the last pip from the bomber.”  
“Brilliant.” Rubbing my knuckles into my eyes I stretched again, managing an affirmative through a large yawn at his offer for coffee.

Something didn’t seem right, that they’d just go off home like that. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the worst was yet to come. So, using the laptop rather conveniently left in one of the desk drawers I pulled up first John’s blog, then Sherlock’s website, to see if either of them had an update. It was more than a little unnerving to discover that I’d slept nearly two days straight, but what I discovered on the forum of _The Science of Deduction_ stopped all train of thought.

_**Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect. The Pool. Midnight.** _

That forum, I knew, was how Sherlock was able to contact the bomber and save each of the victims—myself included. That meant that whatever these plans were, he was planning on trading them to the bomber for something. “Oh, yeah, always safe. Right.” I muttered angrily. Seeing Lestrade caught up by a handful of the team I seized my chance, snagging the key ring I’d found in the drawer and ducking out before anyone could see me.

Lestrade was right, I realized as I drove the borrowed car out of the car park; the bomber _wouldn’t_ go after me again. That meant I was the only one who could possibly stand a chance of saving them.

Parking in the shadows I crept up to the old building, heart pounding a mile a minute. There were no cameras inside, I knew, which meant I was flying completely blind, and I’d yet to get any of my things out of my still-locked car anyway. No R9, no one who knew where I was, and no idea of what I was doing except theoretically saving Sherlock’s hide.

The door in front of me opened, and I stopped dead in my tracks at the familiar face. The familiar, _sneering_ face that I’d seen just before blacking out. I knew without a doubt that this was the bomber, and the sheer level of terror at that realization grounded me even as the man walked closer. 

“Well, well, well. What’re you doing here, sweetheart? Come to save the day like some backwards fantasy? How cute.” The petrifying terror intensified when he stopped at the side of the building and pulled an unsheathed sword out of the bushes. This man was _insane_. Admiring it in the moonlight a moment he suddenly pointed the thing straight at my throat, “Let’s go say hello, shall we?”

Noiselessly I was led inside, hidden in the shadows and forced to listen to John and Sherlock quietly converse below. “We should call Kim,” John sighed, sat against the wall. “What?” Sherlock was still on edge, pacing in front of his flat mate. “The mobile Lestrade lent her. She’s in a better state to drive than either of us are.”

“Not a word,” the bomber breathed into my ear gleefully as Sherlock pulled his own mobile out. The generic ringtone echoed throughout the room, and by the hand that had fisted in my hair I was slowly walked into view.

“Sorry, boys! I’m _so_ changeable! It is a bit of a weakness of mine, but to be fair to myself, it is my _only_ weakness. I might have let you live, if you hadn’t brought your little back-up against me…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you couldn't tell by the title, this chapter feeds straight into the Prologue.  
> Chapter Eleven will break off to events following the Prologue.  
> I'll upload the rest tomorrow; for now I'm going to bed :)


	12. Spleen

11 – Spleen 

 

Of all the things to wake up to, hearing a familiar pair of voices arguing wasn’t the most ideal. I figured I must have fallen asleep on the couch at 221B again—John and Sherlock were quietly bickering while something beeped steadily. But the surface beneath me was too wide and too soft to be that crazy leather sofa, and everything smelt sterile instead of faintly like singed material and coffee.

Hospital—I was in a hospital. The beeping grew more frantic with my panic as everything rushed back to me; the pool and the bomber and being stabbed, and falling and drowning and the bloom of red that billowed after me in the water.

“Christ, not again,” I heard John mutter before I’d managed to open my eyes. “I’ve got her,” Sherlock replied, and my futile attempts at detangling the suffocating blanket were promptly held down. “Sher—” It took a ridiculous amount of energy to open my eyes, and when I finally did, I had a face full of familiar curled locks. “Gerroff,” I managed to weakly shove against my captor, idly noticing how the heart monitor had calmed. Both had frozen a moment, and when I could finally see the room it was to discover John holding some sort of IV bag steady on one side, Sherlock half-leant over my bed on the other, with identical expressions of shock.

“Should I be dead?” I asked weakly, only half-joking. It seemed to break the tension well enough, for John gave an honest laugh and left to go find a nurse. “You _were_ dead, Kim,” Sherlock explained quietly, “for nearly five minutes.”

“But I’m not now.” Things seemed too bizarre to yet get a firm enough grasp on that fact. In response Sherlock gave a strained chuckle, and I realized he hadn’t removed his grip on my wrist—merely softened it. “No, you’re very much alive now.”  
“What happened?”

“He got a better offer. Someone called him, and he let us go. I dragged you out and revived you; John called an ambulance and they stitched you up.” I only very faintly recalled that brief in-between—being dark and cold with a warm body next to me, Sherlock ordering me to not fall asleep…

Before I could dwell much more on it John had returned with an elderly woman in tow; both boys retreated to their vacated seats as she checked my vitals and reassured me that the healing process was going quite smoothly despite my longer-than-predicted lapse in consciousness. She then had a few technical things for John—who was, apparently, now my primary-care doctor—so the two stepped out into the hall. 

“Stabbed through the spleen, huh,” I chuckled humorlessly as I sat up. Sherlock had returned to my side, hand once more resting on my arm. “You should be resting,” he scolded lightly. “I’ve slept enough,” I pouted, earning a smile. It was then I noticed how tired he looked, and I gently placed my other hand on top of his, “You okay?”

“Things have been…difficult, these past few days. John was nearly unbearable about the whole thing. Lestrade tried to come by twice. And Mrs. Hudson insisted on prattling on about everything you’ve missed whenever she visited. Honestly, it’s not as though you were on your death bed.”

“…Are you implying you’ve been—” I began, but—seemingly catching his mistake, Sherlock turned towards the opening door and cut me off. “So, John, when will she be released?”  
“Well, the doctors want to keep you another day, just to make sure you’re stabilized,” John flipped through my clipboard again before returning it to the foot of my bed. I barely withheld a groan, “Another day is one day too many. The sooner I’m out of here the better.”  
“No complaints there,” the doctor grinned tiredly and sat in his chair again, setting aside the battered novel he had apparently brought with him. 

Sherlock still wasn’t off the hook for that yet, though. I knew he was rather determinedly steering the conversation in any direction other than that one, but my curiosity nagged at me nonetheless. He was a man of little sleep, I knew, but I’d not seen him look so genuinely tired before. And if he was so adamant about my not being his friend, what could have possibly changed to make him visit me in hospital, much less stay through visiting hours?


	13. Life Goes On

12 – Life Goes On

 

Despite my half-hearted protests otherwise, I found myself agreeing to stay at Baker Street until I was fully healed. Mrs. Hudson was kind enough to offer me the guest bedroom of her flat, and with Lestrade rather determined to keep me on sick leave I quickly found myself re-organizing the mess that was 221B’s sitting room and kitchen. I made sure to keep all of Sherlock’s experiments intact—despite the rather gross quality of many of them—but, if nothing else, the semblance of clean kept Sherlock and John from going at each other about organization every few hours.

When I came up for breakfast it was to find John typing at the table and Sherlock standing opposite him, drinking from a mug and idly flipping through the morning paper. “What’re you typing,” Sherlock asked distractedly. Neither of them had seen me—or, if they had, they’d chosen like most days to ignore me. “Blog.”  
“About?”  
“Us.” Someone clearly hadn’t had coffee yet—John was typically only coherently wordy after waking up fully. “You mean me.”  
“Why?”  
“Well, you’re typing a lot.”

The clacking of keys idled at that, and I couldn’t withhold my chuckle as I raided the fridge for some juice that _wasn’t_ contaminated, “He’s not wrong on that one, John. For it being a _personal_ blog you certainly skimp on talking about yourself.”  
“Oh, sod off,” John said without any real heat. I stuck my tongue out at him immaturely as Sherlock left to answer the doorbell.

Quite a few cases came and went over my days in recovery—more _went_ than were actually solved, although the one that included comic books supposedly coming true was more than a little amusing. Never let it be said that a grown man cannot pull off dressing like a Ninja without looking ridiculous. (“I look like a bloody idiot.” “Oh, come off it, John, sell it well enough and you two could totally blend in!” “Yeah, at a geek convention, maybe.”) It became so natural for me to be included on the cases that I found myself more than a little put off to return to my old life.

My flat felt cold and unnatural, once I moved back in. Between grandmotherish Mrs. Hudson and the never dull whirlwind of Sherlock and John, the silence of my own place was just too irritating. Returning to the office wasn’t much better—paper pushing was a boring job on its own, but after getting out there into the thick of things it just didn’t even seem worth it to try. I was honestly thankful when Lestrade came over half-way through my shift with a familiar ring of keys in hand. “I don’t suppose you’d feel up for helping me out on this one?”

“You kidding,” I found myself grinning as I eagerly followed him out towards the car park, “If you’d left me back there I think I might’ve cried. Or mutinied. Maybe both.”  
“I know the feeling,” Lestrade nodded sagely as he entered the passenger side, “Once you get a taste of that action it can be painful to go back to the desk side of things.”  
“So where’re we off to, then?”  
“Bart’s—St. Bartholomew Hospital. Park ‘round back, we’re going to the morgue.”  
“Morgue,” I repeated warily. Lestrade answered with a cheeky grin, “Sherlock’s home-away-from-home.”


	14. Meeting Molly

13 – Meeting Molly

 

Bart’s morgue was surprisingly clean, considering it was a _morgue_. Lestrade waltzed in comfortably enough, so I tried not to feel too out of place as I fell into step behind him. “Morning, Molly,” Lestrade called far too cheerfully for a mortuary. A mousy brunette jumped, startled, before offering a tentative smile, “Oh—m-morning, Detective Inspector. Who’s this?”

“Kim Doyle,” I offered a hand politely, only just managing not to flinch at how cold her fingers were when she shook it. “Molly Hooper. Are you here with the Detective?”

“Come to help on the latest case,” I gestured lamely to the tablet I’d tucked under my arm, “Though how I’m not yet sure.” The doors on the opposite side swung open wide as John and Sherlock swept into the room. I found myself grinning at the cliché entrance, “Morning, boys!”

“Long time no see,” John joked, clapping me on the shoulder when I came to stand between them. I nudged Sherlock’s elbow when he didn’t say anything, receiving a patiently indulgent smile before he turned to Lestrade, “Now; show me the body.”

Letting the pair do whatever they needed to do I lingered off to the side near Molly. “So, you know Sherlock?” the mousy girl asked tentatively. I gave her an encouraging smile, “Yep, I met him and John on one of their cases a few months back.”

“Oh,” her chipper attitude was inspiring, if not a little obviously forced, “And what is it you do, exactly?”  
“I work for the Yard—sort of a secretary, I guess. But I’m good with computers, so sometimes I help on their cases.”

“Kim,” Sherlock suddenly called, breaking off the conversation. “I’ll need you to scan this, see if there’s anything on record that matches.” _This_ , it turned out, was a blonde woman’s cadaver covered in strange-colored specks. “Eugh. Right, okay,” trying not to grimace too obviously, I gave the body a full scan from several angles before hopping onto one of the tables to start searching. Sherlock and John had returned to examining the body, and I could just make out their continued conversation, “Do people actually read your blog?”

“Where do you think our clients come from?”  
“I have a website.”  
“In which you enumerate 240 types of tobacco ash; no one reads your website.”

I refrained from jumping in immaturely that _I_ read his website as John continued to the room as a whole and Sherlock stood rather abruptly, spun on his heel, and marched out of the room. I didn’t, however, keep in the eye roll and soft _oi vey_ as I locked and set aside the tablet. Hopping off the table I went after the sleuth, giving a parting _nice meeting you_ to Molly as I passed the girl.

“If you’re here to try and cheer me up, Molly, go away.” Sherlock was still stalking down the deserted hallway. “ _Molly_ , huh,” I couldn’t help but call, pointedly raising an eyebrow as I folded my arms across my chest, “That’s probably the first time I’ve ever been called a _Molly_ before, especially after just vacating the same room as one.” Sighing loudly he thankfully stopped, allowing me to catch up before speaking. “She is frequently of the opinion that I brood too much.”

“You _do_ brood too much. In comparison to the rest of the human population, anyway,” I teased good-naturedly. He sniffed in annoyance and still wouldn’t meet my gaze, so I placatingly backed down off the jokes. Hesitantly I threaded my arm through his, pleased when he met my gaze questioningly. “On our way over, Lestrade mentioned this was practically your home away from home. Why don’t you show me? It might help take your mind off things.”

“My mind cannot simply _turn off_ like a tap,” Sherlock huffed, though started walking again. “No,” I agreed carefully, “But I bet focusing on something else might help resolve whatever’s bugging you.”  
“Didn’t I give you a job to do?”

“You did. R9’s searching, and she will continue to search regardless of whether I’m physically in contact with the thing or not.” Humming noncommittally Sherlock stopped at the end of the hall, still not looking directly at me, “I’ve been thinking. There have been more clients since John started his blog.”

“And you think that suddenly people aren’t reading your site anymore?” I guessed. His glance away was affirmative enough, and I let out an honest chuckle, “Sher, just because someone presents the information differently doesn’t mean they won’t continue to be interested. Having honestly read his entries, I can say they’re lacking in quite a few ways. But he presents it in a way that ordinary people can understand, and he focuses on the human element. That helps pique interest.”

“Why do you read my website,” he asked in honest curiosity. “If it’s so _clearly_ out of comprehension for other people, why is it one of your most visited links?”

“You know I don’t get science,” I admitted, self-teasingly, “I mean, anything much past the bare mins and I’m in too deep to figure it out. But I could honestly care less if it talked about the 240 types of tobacco ash or, I dunno, the probability of pigs actually _flying_. I read it because it’s important to you. It’s something you’re honestly passionate about, and even if the terminology is over my head, reading it helps me see things the way _you_ do.” I wasn’t sure if he understood what I was trying to say, so I wet my lips and tried again.

“You look at things and you see the tiniest details of them—what each of those details means. You figured out I was vegetarian within a few hours’ worth of minimal contact. You solved an entire case going only off a pair of _shoes_ in nine hours. And that’s _so_ amazing to me, because I’m used to looking at the whole picture first. Person. Dog. Building. _Whatever_. And then, over time, I manage to piece together the details in smaller and smaller increments.”

“…I see,” Sherlock said after a brief silence. Somehow, however, I had a feeling he didn’t see at all.


	15. Buckingham

14 – Buckingham 

 

“I’m taking you _where_ , to do _what_ ,” I frowned, glaring at the bright red **3:00 AM** on my alarm clock. _“I know, but apparently Sherlock’s not leaving the house for anything he doesn’t have to.”_ John sounded just as exasperated as I felt. “I knew I shouldn’t have given him access to R9. Lazy git. Alright, lemme get dressed and I’ll swing by. Lestrade knows I won’t be coming in, right?”  
 _“Most likely. Ta.”_

It was four hours later that I pulled the car up to the crime scene off the side of the country road in literally the middle of nowhere. I’d given my tablet to John to set up the Skype chat, and he idly monkeyed with the settings as he got out. The Inspector on this case was the person who took over for Dimmok—I didn’t know his name but in the few interactions we’d had I certainly didn’t like him.

“Mister Holmes,” the man assumed, offering a hand to John as I killed the engine. “John Watson, hi,” he corrected, “Does your mobile have service by any chance?”

Sat on the hood of my car I pulled open my smaller laptop and patched through into the feed, trying not to outwardly be too amused at the usual antics. “You realize this is a _tiny_ bit humiliating,” John scolded under his breath as Sherlock came into view with his sheet wrapped like a toga about him, yawning widely. “S’okay, I’m fine,” the sleuth muttered sleepily. “Now,” grabbing his mug in one hand and the laptop in his other, he tottered his way into the sitting room, “Show me to the stream.”

“I didn’t really mean for you,” John countered. He was still walking down towards the body, and Sherlock had meanwhile set about meticulously angling the laptop’s screen. “Look, this is a _six_. No point in my leaving the flat for anything less than a seven, we agreed. Now, go back. Show me the grass.” As Sherlock continued to direct John’s aim of the camera, I did my best to take in the scene myself.   
“When did we agree that?”

“We agreed it yesterday. _Stop_!” Through my own laptop I could see Sherlock lean closer and narrow his eyes, “closer.” Before I could spot what he’d seen, however, John turned the tablet around and frowned, “I wasn’t even at home yesterday, I was in _Dublin_.”

“It’s not my fault you weren’t listening.” When the doorbell chimed at Baker Street Sherlock turned towards the staircase to bellow “ _Shut UP_!” before turning back.  
“Do you just carry on talking when I’m away?”  
“I dunno; how often are you away?”

“Boys, please? The crime scene?” I reminded, not bothering to hide my amusement. “Yes, alright,” Sherlock pouted, “John, show me the car that backfired. Kim, walk slowly around it.” Obediently I hopped off, cradling the laptop at the directed angle as John explained, “If you’re thinking gunshot, there wasn’t one. He wasn’t shot; he was killed by a single blow to the back of the head from a blunt instrument, which then _magically_ disappeared along with the killer. That’s got to be an _eight_ , at least.”

“You’ve got two more minutes, then I want to know more about this driver,” the Inspector interrupted. Having gone once around the car I retreated back to the hood of my own as Sherlock waved dismissively, “Oh, forget him, he’s an idiot. Why else would he think himself a suspect?”

“I think he’s a suspect,” the Inspector insisted. Glaring daggers, Sherlock leaned forward and growled, “ _Pass me over_!”

“Alright, but there’s a mute button and I’m not afraid to use it,” John warned, angling the tablet towards the Inspector as they returned. “Up a bit! I’m not talking from down here,” Sherlock ordered. Exasperated, John passed the thing over and jogged the rest of the way towards me. “Having driven to an isolated location and successfully committed a crime without a single witness, why would he then call the police and consult a detective? Fair play?”

Well, at least Sherlock hadn’t lashed into the man himself right off the bat, I couldn’t help but think. “He’s trying to be clever. It’s over-confidence.” The Inspector countered. Sherlock gave an all-suffering sigh through his nose, “Have you _seen_ this man? Morbidly obese, the undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own. The right sleeve of an internet porn addict, and the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition. Low self-esteem, tiny IQ and a limited life expectancy and you think he’s an audacious criminal _mastermind_?”

I couldn’t keep from smacking my forehead into the palm of my hand and breathing _oh Jesus really_ when Sherlock turned to reveal said driver sitting behind him white as the sheet the sleuth had donned. “Don’t worry, this is just stupid,” he said to the man. “W-what did you say? Heart what?” the driver spluttered as Sherlock turned back to the camera, suddenly in a much more refined mood. “Go to the stream.”  
“What’s in the stream?”  
“Go and see!”

Shaking his head at his flat mate’s antics John left to collect the tablet from the inspector, and Mrs. Hudson appeared just in view back at Baker Street, “Sherlock! You weren’t answering your doorbell!” Two unfamiliar men promptly followed, one directing the other about _get him some clothes_. “Who the hell are you?” Sherlock demanded. “Sorry, Mister Holmes, you’re coming with us,” the first man continued, reaching over to close the laptop. “I-I’ve lost him. Kim? What happened?” John frowned, tapping the screen a few times. “They closed him out,”  
"They? They who?”

“No idea…” Closing my own laptop I narrowed my eyes at the helicopter that had just touched down, “But something tells me we’re about to find out.”

Despite the officer’s insistence that it wouldn’t be necessary, I slipped the tablet into my bag and made sure the car was properly locked up before allowing myself to be shepherded along behind John into the helicopter.


	16. Client

15 – Client

 

There was a restrained sort of hush about the palace grounds. The thickly plush carpet underfoot muffled any footsteps, and the few people we came across kept to themselves. I couldn’t help but feel vastly underdressed, as John and I were escorted through the halls. My jeans were well-worn and paint-splattered, my brown spaghetti strap had a hole on the bottom and the checkered button-down I’d thrown overtop was pathetically wrinkled. I was dressed for a lazy, early-morning case—not a visit to Buckingham bleeding Palace!

We were shown to a sitting room with identical, facing sofas, where Sherlock was lounging barefooted and still bundled in his sheet. Catching his gaze John mimed a _what_ and was replied with a baffled, albeit lazy shrug that I mimicked when he then looked at me. With nothing else to do we walked in and dropped on either side of the sleuth. John gave Sherlock’s impromptu toga a double-take in his perusal of the room, “…Are you wearing any pants?”

“No,” Poker-faced, Sherlock’s response was just as quiet, as was John’s following _okay_. My responding snort of laughter, however, wasn’t. The boys were quick to follow, and I tried not to think too hard on our situation. “At Buckingham Palace,” John breathed in disbelief once we’d settled down. He cleared his throat and looked around again, “I’m seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray.”

“I hear you there,” I chuckled, “I’m _itching_ to sink my teeth into their systems here. It’s gotta be a goldmine.” We looked at each other, and the overwhelming absurdity of it all quickly set us off again.

“What are we doing here, Sherlock. Seriously, _what are_ we doing here?” John, it seemed, was determined to at least try being mature about the situation. Still grinning, Sherlock shook his head in a half-shrug, “I don’t know.”

“Here to see the Queen?” John guessed as someone entered from the opposite doorway that we had. Sherlock turned first, “ _Apparently_ , yes,” and, seeing Mycroft standing there, we quickly dissolved into another fit of giggles.

“Just _once_ , can the three of you behave like _grownups_ ,” Mycroft asked icily. “Breaking our agreement, are we?” I retorted easily. His ‘swallowed vinegar’ expression was back, as was the bitingly professional smile, “Not willingly, I assure you, Miss Doyle.”

“Agreement? What agreement?” Sherlock frowned. In response I pulled out my tablet and made short work of entering the system, “Mycroft butts out of my life and I continue to fight the impulse to use my powers for evil.”

“I had hoped by… _butting out_ , you would become a better influence on my brother. Now I see I should have never allowed the three of you to meet.” Still fixated on finding and tapping into all of the cameras of the room I saw Mycroft cross to stand in front of the other sofa in the edges of my vision. Nonplussed, John managed a straight face, “We solve crimes; she hacks things, I blog about it, and he forgets his pants. I wouldn’t hold up too much hope.”

“I was in the middle of a _case_ , Mycroft,” Sherlock added. “What, the hiker and the backfire? I glanced at the police report; bit obvious, really.”

“Transparent.” Across Sherlock, John and I shared a brief, confused glance. “Time to move on, then,” Mycroft cleared his throat, picking up the pile of folded clothes off the coffee table and holding them out to Sherlock. Petulantly, he ignored them.

“We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British nation. Sherlock Holmes; _put your trousers on_.”  
“What for?”  
“Your _client_.”

“And my client _is_?” Sherlock stood testily. Seeing another person walk in I quickly locked my tablet’s screen and slipped it back into my bag—it wouldn’t do to have total strangers discover I was giving myself a little tour of the palace via R9.

“Illustrious,” the newcomer answered, grabbing the others’ attention, “in the extreme. And remaining, I have to inform you, entirely anonymous.” Following John’s example I rather reluctantly stood as Mycroft and the man— _Harry_ , apparently—shook hands cheerfully. “May I just apologize for the state of my little brother?”

“A full-time occupation, I imagine.” I narrowed my eyes at that, not attempting pleasantries when his gaze landed next on me. “Then that makes you Miss Lunar Anne, I presume?”

“Kim Doyle,” I corrected frigidly, nodding in greeting but ignoring the offered hand in favor of dropping back to the couch. That man rubbed me the wrong way, almost worse than Mycroft did. Unperturbed by my brush-off he turned to John, completely bypassing Sherlock, “And this must be Doctor Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

“Hello, yes,” Feigning cheerfulness John took the offered handshake, not-so-subtly giving me a pointed look while he was at it. “My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog; particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminum crutch.” It was Sherlock’s turn to get a pointed look at that one, almost reluctantly bringing Harry’s attention to the sleuth. “And Mister Holmes the younger. You look taller in your photographs.” Nope, I definitely didn’t care for that man whatsoever. 

“I take the precaution of a good coat and a _short_ friend,” Sherlock nudged me with his foot before striding towards the door, “Mycroft I don’t do anonymous clients. I’m used to mystery at one end of my cases; both ends is too much work. Good morning.” Directing that last at Harry he made to walk out, but Mycroft stepped on the trail of his toga, nearly exposing his brother had Sherlock not grabbed it around his waist.

“This is a matter of national importance, _grow up_!”  
“Get off my sheet!”  
“Or what?”  
“Or I’ll just walk away.”  
“I’ll let you.”  
“Boys, please?” John intervened, “Not here.” Still facing the doorway, Sherlock growled, “Who. Is. My. _Client_?!”

“Take a look at where you’re standing and make a deduction. You are to be engaged by the highest in the land. Now for _God’s sake _!” Pursing his lips to keep from shouting Mycroft finished, “Put your clothes on!”__

Several moments later we were all sat in a fairly tense silence. The fully-clothed Sherlock had re-entered behind a maid carrying a tea set, and Mycroft had taken it upon himself to serve everyone. I ignored Harry completely, focused instead on familiarizing myself with the palace’s grounds.

“I’ll be mother,” Mycroft offered in strained cheerfulness. “And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell,” Sherlock added. I didn’t even bother to try and hide my amused smirk at the blow, still idly watching one of the grounds keepers trimming a hedge.

“My employer has a problem,” Harry began hesitantly. Mycroft continued, “A matter has come to light of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature. And in this hour of need, _dear brother_ , your name has arisen.”

“Why? You have a police force, of sorts, even a marginally secret service. Why come to me?”  
“People do come to you for help, don’t they, Mister Holmes?”  
“Not to date anyone with a navy,” Sherlock countered easily. “This is a matter of high security, therefore, of trust.”

“You don’t trust your own secret service,” John blinked in disbelief. “Naturally not. They all spy on people for money.”  
“Enemies closer and all that, then?” I guessed, still not looking up. I could see Sherlock’s smirk out of the corner of my eye, but before he could speak, Harry interjected. “I do think we have a time table.”  
“…Yes, of course,” Properly chastised Mycroft dragged a briefcase into his lap, pulling out a paper to hand to Sherlock, “What do you know about this woman?”

Withdrawing from the system I obediently scanned the photograph when Sherlock angled it towards me. “Nothing whatsoever,” he admitted as R9 searched. “Then you should be paying more attention,” Mycroft scolded. I sent him a glare. “Irene Adler,” I filled in, skimming through the file, “She’s been at the center of a few political scandals over the years. Most recently broke her way through the long-term marriage of a novelist by having an affair with both parties separately.”

“Charming,” Sherlock seemed much more willing to cooperate with me one-upping his brother. I hummed, “Looks like she’s some kind of dominatrix. Ah—dominant adulterer,” I explained at John’s confused grunt. “She governs her clients in a bedroom setting for a living. Probably one of the worst sort of people to fool around with unless you know what you’re getting into."

At his prodding, I handed the tablet over for Sherlock to scroll through her website. The photos were all artfully provocative, intent obvious but angle chaste enough that nothing truly awkward was revealed. Handing it back he rather pointedly kept his poker face at the two men, “And this Adler woman, I assume she has some compromising photographs?”  
“You’re very quick, Mister Holmes.”  
“Hardly a difficult deduction. Photographs of whom?”

Mycroft and Harry exchanged an awkward glance. “A person of significance to my employer. We prefer not to say any more at this time.”  
“You can’t tell us anything,” John frowned. Mycroft inhaled deeply, “I can tell you it’s a young person. A young _female_ person.” Catching something in Harry’s thick swallow, Sherlock’s lips twitched in a smirk. “How many photographs?”

“A considerable number, apparently.”  
“Do Miss Adler and this _young female person_ appear in the same photographs together?”  
“Yes, they do.”  
“And I assume in a number of compromising scenarios.”  
“An imaginative range, we have been assured.”

Sherlock gave a shallow sigh, “John, you might want to put that cup back in its saucer.” When I glanced over at the doctor he startled out of his stupor and quickly set the tea down before he could spill it, ears flushing. “Can you help us, Mister Holmes?” Harry asked.  
“How?”  
“Will you take the case?” Mycroft elaborated. Sherlock snorted, “What case? Pay her, now, and in full. As Miss Adler remarks on her site, _know when you are beaten_."

Before Sherlock could so much as shift to stand, Mycroft sighed, “She doesn’t want anything. She got in touch; she informed us that the photographs existed. She indicated she had no intention of using them to extort either money or favor.”

_That_ certainly got the sleuth’s attention. “Oh, a _power play_ ,” Sherlock grinned at the thought, “A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now that _is_ a dominatrix. Ooh, this is getting rather _fun_ , isn’t it?”

“Sherlock,” John warned. I bit my lips to contain my snicker. Ignoring the pair of us Sherlock pulled his hands in front of his mouth in his typical thinking pose, “Kim, address?”

Following his example I stood, more than a little thankful to be on the move, “She’s got a few, but the most current looks like…yep, it’s in London.”  
“We’ll need a ride back to the crime scene, then, for the car. I’ll be in touch by the end of the day.”

Scrambling to keep up, Harry got to his feet, “Do you really think you’ll have news by then?”  
“No, I think I’ll have the photographs,” Sherlock smirked, buttoning his jacket. “Well, one can only hope you’re as good as you seem to think,” Harry blinked in surprise. I smirked when Sherlock gave the man a full-on deduction before turning to Mycroft, “I’ll need some equipment, of course.”

“Anything you require,” Mycroft began. Sherlock cut across him to hold a hand out towards Harry, “Can I have a box of matches?”  
“I’m sorry?”  
“Or your cigarette lighter; either will do.”

“I don’t smoke,” the man insisted. Sherlock’s smirk widened, “No, I know _you_ don’t, but your _employer_ does.” The following silence was gobsmacked and I **loved** it. “We have kept a lot of people successfully in the dark about this little fact, Mister Holmes,” Harry explained through grit teeth as he handed the lighter over. “I’m not the common wealth,” Sherlock met the threat with a steady gaze.

“And that’s as modest as he gets,” John interrupted lightly, following us out, “Pleasure to meet you.”  
“ _Laterz_!” Sherlock called immaturely as we rounded the corner.


	17. Care

16 – Care 

 

After picking up the car we returned to Baker Street, where I was somehow roped into helping Mrs. Hudson bake pies for Mrs. Turner next door—apparently, her boys were having some kind of party. When I finally managed to escape Sherlock was just re-donning his scarf and coat and John was nowhere in sight. “John will need the keys,” the sleuth explained absently. “I’m sitting this one out, then?” I guessed. His short glance was answer enough, and I sighed, “I figured as much. Her being a dominatrix and all that.”

Pausing as he reached for his coat Sherlock frowned over at me, “What’s that supposed to mean?”  
“It means this will likely boil down to you versus her, and I’d get in the way.” It was true—that didn’t mean I liked it, but I knew how stubborn the sleuth could get. Making up my mind as I heard John’s steps on the stairs I unclasped my necklace. “Can you do me a favor and wear this, at least?”

He gave the simple, oval charm a wary glance. “What is it?”  
“I worked it up last week. It scrambles any frequency other than R9’s. No one can record you with that on, and if you stand close enough it can scramble video feed, too.”  
“And why would I need to wear it?”

“You’re going into the house of a woman who controls people for a living. Call it an overreaction, but I _really_ wouldn’t be surprised if she had the whole place wired. She’s gotta be clever running that line of profession right? And anyway, after the whole Moriarty thing I’ve been trying to make some for all of us.”

To my honest surprise he took it, loosening his scarf to clasp it around his neck and slip it under his shirt, “Thank you.” Smiling, I turned to John in the doorway, “Sorry yours isn’t ready yet. I was going to get R9 on it today, but then the 3Am case happened.”  
“Oh, no, it’s fine. It’s sweet of you to even think of.”

“He’s not taking us down that easily again, not if I can help it.” Then, remembering, “ _oh_! Keys. Right. Make sure you take out the pass, too, if you’re not going for police on this one.”

And so I was left to my own devices while the pair of them went off. I finished helping Mrs. Hudson with the pies and had just begun to wonder about dinner when the door downstairs opened with a bang. “Kim?”

John and Lestrade came in, dragging a thoroughly kayoed Sherlock between them. “Jesus,” I huffed, dropping the tablet to help grab Sherlock’s legs. Together the three of us carried him into his bedroom, and John sent Lestrade for the first aid kit. “We weren’t the only ones after the photographs,” the doctor explained shortly as we heaved the covers back out of the sleeping sleuth’s way. “In the confusion she drugged him. I don’t know what with, but she said it would only last a few hours.”

Sensing his worry I grabbed John’s wrist and smiled gently at him, “You go help Lestrade. I’ll watch over Sherlock.”  
“Are you sure?”  
“No problem. Go on—it looked like he still had a billion questions.”

Only after John had closed the door behind him I carefully threw the thinnest sheet over Sherlock and perched beside his head, gently coaxing him onto his side to avoid him choking on his own vomit. It amazed me how calm he looked in sleep, and I indulged myself in gently raking my fingers through his hair to pass the time.

I must have dozed off, however, for the next thing I knew there was a shatteringly loud thump and a still-dazed Sherlock on the floor. Wincing sympathetically I scrambled to his side, carefully helping him to his feet. “How did I get here?”

“John and Lestrade brought you home,” I steadied him when he attempted to lunge forward too quickly, “Easy! You were drugged, it might still be in your system.”

“Where is she?” Sherlock looked around wildly, seemingly unable to recognize his own room. “Irene Adler? She wasn’t here, Sher. You’re home now.” He gave an exaggerated blink in my direction before suddenly putting all of his weight onto me. I stumbled but managed to twist so that we landed on the bed. “Hey, none of that,” I scolded lightly, pushing him off of me. It was more than a little concerning that he remained completely pliant as I shifted him back into a proper sleeping position—even moreso when he grabbed my wrist after in a near-bruising grip. “Where d’you think you’re going?”

“Sherlock, love, you need to sleep,” but, it seemed, I was doomed to spend the rest of the night there. Conceding I once more perched on the vacant side of his bed, toeing off my shoes and letting him pull me on properly. “Are you always this clingy when you’re drugged,” I half-teased, half-complained when he promptly wrapped me in a hug that reminded me more of a drunk octopus.

His reply was mumbled and slurred and had something to do with bananas. Chuckling I tentatively raked my hand through his hair again, “Go to _sleep_ , Sher. You’ll feel better in the morning.”


	18. Evolution

17 – Evolution 

 

“Eugh. You _drooled_ in my _hair_ ,” I groaned petulantly, combing my fingers through the tangled auburn mess. “You _slept_ in my _bed_ ,” Sherlock countered just as petulantly, throwing his sheets back into some semblance of order. “Yeah, well, if some royal nutter hadn’t been stupid, you wouldn’t have gotten drugged and we wouldn’t be in this mess.” Giving up on the hair I turned towards his closet and pulled the doors open. “What are you doing?”

“Shirt hunting. I need a shower and John’s too short.”  
“So you’re borrowing one of mine?”

“I wouldn’t be caught dead even _trying_ to pilfer one off Mrs. Hudson,” I pointed out, “Does she even _wear_ actual shirts?” Any time I’d seen her she’d been in colorfully patterned, billowy old-lady dresses. After a beat, Sherlock crossed the room to stand beside me, “ _Fine_ , fair enough. Take the purple one and _don’t_ use all the hot water. And be quick, I’ll need to take one as well, before Mycroft shows up.”

Showering quickly I toweled my hair dry as I entered the kitchen. John was stood sleepily waiting for the coffee pot to finish, “Mrs. Hudson’s gone to get eggs; she’s apparently making us breakfast.” He then gave me a double take, and I could see his ears flush slightly, “Did I miss something?”

“Oh, come off it, you know nothing happened,” I rolled my eyes and pulled open the fridge, bypassing the bag of thumbs still in the drawer in favor of the carton of orange juice. “I just borrowed one of his shirts, what’s the big deal?”

“The big—?” John leaned in and lowered his voice conspiratorially, “Kim, you and Sherlock were alone in his bedroom all night long. Then you come out _after showering_ wearing his clothes. What else would someone expect?”  
“Geez, you’re no better than Lestrade,” I huffed, “Why does everyone seem so _convinced_ that something’s going on?”

“Something _is_ going on, Kim. I can’t even keep a date over for _coffee_ before Sherlock gets at it. You come and go and sleep in his bed and borrow his shirts without so much as a squeak.”

“He _went at it_ when I first showed up, too, remember? And you’re obviously forgetting what happened after my promotion. That’s just the way Sherlock is. He likes things the way they are and he has to fight change tooth-and-nail before realizing he accepts it. It probably doesn’t help, though, that some of those dates were more than a little bimboish. Don’t deny it; it was _obvious_ that one had her nose done. And, come on, we were in the middle of a case!”

“Yeah, okay, nitpick the girlfriends, why don’t you,” Relenting, John gave a teasingly suffering sigh as he poured himself a mug. “Gladly,” Sherlock made his presence known in the doorway, promptly snatching the glass out of my hand, “What are we talking about?”

Before he could steal I sip I snatched it back, giving the detective a _look_ , “John’s being a berk about the fact I stole one of your shirts.”  
“And that led to the nitpicking of John’s girlfriends?”

“Yep,” I popped the _p_ cheekily before surrendering the glass in favor of helping Mrs. Hudson carry the ingredients up for breakfast. “Good morning, love,” the landlady greeted happily, “look at you all healthy and happy this morning!”  
“Need a hand with breakfast?”  
“Oh, I’d love one, dear, but you’re the guest.”

“You know I don’t mind,” grinning in reassurance I turned in towards the sitting room, “Sher, are there any stray experiments this time?”  
“None that would get in the way of breakfast,” he replied absently, deeply engrossed in the paper, “though do try not to mix up the kettles again.”  
“That was _one_ time, and I didn’t even know there was another kettle back then,” I pouted.

John, having to go into work that day, got his three-minute eggs first. I was just starting on Sherlock’s sunny-side-up when Mycroft let himself in. I rather pointedly ignored his attempt at pleasantries, but couldn’t help listening in as I minded the toast.

“The photographs are perfectly safe,” Sherlock reassured absently. “In the hands of a fugitive _sex_ worker?”  
“She’s not interested in blackmail, she wants…protection, for some reason…” That seemed to baffle Sherlock a moment before he continued, “I take it you stood down the police investigation as to the shooting at her house?”

“How can we do _anything_ while she has the photographs? Our hands are tied.”  
“Pretty poor choice of words. Do you see how this works? That camera phone is her get-out-of-jail-free card. You’ll have to leave her alone. Treat her like _royalty_ , Mycroft.”

“Though not the way _she_ treats royalty,” John added. My responding grin lasted all of a second before an awkward sigh-like noise split through the room. “What was that?” John asked. Peering in I noticed Sherlock’s grin fall into an awkward poker face, “…Text…” before he quickly shuffled the paper closed and scooped up his phone. “But what was that noise?”

Ignoring the question, Sherlock read the text and instead asked, “But you knew there were other people after her, didn’t you, Mycroft? Before you sent John and I in there? CIA-trained _killers_ , would be my excellent guess.”

“Yeah, thanks for that, Mycroft,” John added. Making a mental note to ask about _that_ bit of information later I scooped Sherlock’s eggs onto a plate and obediently handed it over to Mrs. Hudson. The landlady smiled briefly at me in thanks before taking them over, “It’s a disgrace, sending your little brother into danger like that. Family is _all we have_ in the end, Mycroft Holmes!”

“Oh shut up, Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft sneered. I turned around so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash. “ _Excuse you_?!”  
“Hey!”  
“Mycroft!”

Our trio of tandem barks seemed to properly abash the man, for he got that ‘swallowed vinegar’ look again as he glanced at me and the boys before twitching a false smile at the offended woman in question. “My apologies.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Hudson nodded sternly and retreated into the kitchen, waving off Sherlock’s added, “Though do, in fact, shut up.”

“You’re kinder than I am, forgiving him that easily,” I couldn’t help but mutter as I turned back to my French toast. Her only reply was a knowing smile and a pat on my elbow before she busied herself with her own breakfast. The false sigh sounded again, and Mrs. Hudson turned back to the sitting room, “It’s a bit rude, that noise, isn’t it?”

Once again Sherlock ignored the remark, briefly checking the text before continuing, “There’s nothing you can do and nothing she will do, as far as I can see.”  
“I can put maximum surveillance on her,” Mycroft reminded. Sherlock unfurled his paper, “Why bother? You can follow her on Twitter. I believe her username is _@thewhiphand_.”  
“Most amusing,” Mycroft sneered, pulling his phone out and excusing himself into the stairwell. 

John watched him go before regarding Sherlock curiously, “Why does your phone make that noise?”  
“What noise?”  
“ _That_ noise. The one it just made.”  
“It’s a text alert; means I’ve got a text.”  
“But your texts don’t usually make that noise.”  
“Well, apparently as a joke someone got hold of the phone and personalized their text alert.”

“Hmm,” John shifted in his seat as though trying to keep me in view, “So every time this person texts you…” As if on cue the thing sighed again, and after a rather awkward beat Sherlock re-folded the paper again, “It would seem so.”

John looked at me accusingly, and I threw my hands up defensively, “Why d’you assume it’s _me_?!” Probably sensing an argument, Mrs. Hudson chose to make a hasty retreat to her own flat, taking her plate of scrambled eggs with her. John blinked slowly, “That’s _not_ you?”  
“Why would I change his text alert to sound like a false _orgasm_ , then proceed to text him when I could just as easily _speak_ to him?” In the silence that followed I realized what I’d implied it sounded like and promptly returned to finishing my French toast.

“Bond Air is go, that’s decided. Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later,” Mycroft finished his phone call on the landing before returning into the room. “What else does she have,” Sherlock pegged. “ _Irene Adler_ ,” he elaborated after a beat, “The Americans wouldn’t be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs. There’s more…”

Ignoring what was sure to be a fairly tense brotherly quarrel consisting mainly of exchanged glares I gave the pair a wide berth and dropped into the other chair at the table. “I thought you were a vegetarian,” John frowned, wisely following my example of ignoring the pair. “Don’t eat meat. Eggs I don’t have a problem with.”  
“Why’s that?”  
“I was kidnapped and taken to a slaughter house once. Got to sit there for five hours before I managed to escape.”

“Now,” Mycroft said loudly, “if you’ll excuse me, I have a long and _arduous_ apology to make to a _very_ old friend.”  
“Do give her my love,” Sherlock moved behind me to grab up his violin, following his brother down the stairs with a loud but beautifully in-tune rendition of _God Save the Queen_.


	19. R9

18 – R9 

 

It had been several weeks since the whole Adler incident, and things were almost unbearably quiet for Sherlock. Unfortunately, as I still had some semblance of a life to get back to, I once again found myself waist-high in paperwork and rarely managed to find time to visit. Sometime around day three of constant scanning and shredding of old documents, Sherlock took it upon himself to take his boredom out of Baker Street and, instead, haunt me with it.

When I’d asked him why, he merely said that John told him to. Upon texting John, however, the doctor explained he’d told the git to take his brooding elsewhere. Apparently, he was also currently banned from Bart’s on account of nearly setting fire to the labs. Again.

Lestrade kicked Sherlock out of NSY around day six, and when I went home the following night it was to find Sherlock sitting on my porch in the rain, glaring at the world petulantly. “Oh, for the love of—” Scurrying with my keys I herded the detective in and re-set R9’s system lock. “Bathroom’s upstairs; you go dry off and I’ll see if I can’t find something that’ll fit you.” Managing to find an old pair of sweats and a long-since faded tee from Uni I left them on the floor in front of the bathroom.

I had a feeling this wouldn’t be a one-time thing, so after starting a fire in the grate I dug out my tool kit and shuffled into the back corner behind the armchair to get at R9’s hard drive. “Kim?” Sherlock called in some confusion from the direction of the stairs. I spat out the screwdriver and hollered, “In here!” before shimmying back out and crossing the room to the control panel. “I’m reconfiguring R9 to recognize your voice,” I explained once I heard him approach. “Thank you,” he muttered, dropping onto the sofa in front of the fire. Glancing over I saw he’d commandeered my comforter, warmly cocooned from neck to ankles. “Wouldn’t do to kill the world’s only Consulting Detective because he got locked out of my flat, would it?” 

We shared a brief smile before I turned back to the control panel, “There we go. Now you’ll just have to give her a command.”  
“What sort of command?”  
“She’s hooked up to pretty much everything. You could tell her to make a pot of coffee? Just say _R9_ first or it won’t register. Ready?”

At Sherlock’s nod I pressed the button, “R9, Issue new voice command.”  
“New voice command ready. Please give order.”  
“R9, make me a pot of coffee.”  
“Voice command issued. Go ahead with command?”  
“Yes; R9 go ahead.”

“And that’s all there is to it,” I grinned, dropping beside him on the sofa. “She can search the internet, play music, control the lighting and the shower, windows and all the locks. She tells me when I need to go to the super and can tell me what ingredients I’m missing if I want to make something. If someone visits often enough she can also recognize who is at the door so I don’t have to get up for stupid people.”

“It’s a fine bit of craftsmanship,” Sherlock smiled honestly, looking around at the light fixtures and the windows. “She’s also saved our hides on more than one occasion,” I added with a grin, standing when said program alerted a complete pot. “Black, two sugars, right?” I called, surprised when I turned around that he’d followed me in. “Please.”

I’d just handed him his mug when the text alert sound went off, effectively killing my grin. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, pulling his phone out with his free hand to idly read the message. Pouring myself a mugful I couldn’t help but shake my head, “It’s just too obviously faked.”

“Go on then; deduce it for me,” Sherlock suggested in a humoring tone, taking a hearty sip of his coffee. Pausing as I spooned the chocolate powder into my coffee I thought it through a moment, wondering how to explain, “Well, for one, there’s the pitch.”  
“People have different voices.”

“Doesn’t matter. Wouldn’t ever be that high unless it were a child.” Nudging him gently back towards the sitting room I mentally re-played the sound before continuing, “It’s too breathy and whimsical, like a deliberate sigh.”

“Wouldn’t one be out of breath at an orgasm?” The fact that he seemed to have no qualms about straight up saying the word made me flush more than the word itself. “Sure, but there’s _out of breath_ and there’s _breathy_. That’s more sighing schoolgirl than haggard climax. Very uniform and what you’d _expect_ to hear when you’re not in the passion of the moment. Not much raw emotion in it, either.”

Almost as though proving my point, the phone went off again. I watched Sherlock carefully as he tilted his head, eyes scanning rapidly and sightlessly as though picking out each of the points I’d raised and comparing them to what he already knew. When he picked up the mobile and scanned the message he’d very carefully schooled his poker face. “You’re not wrong,” he agreed, monotonously quiet. “Despite what my brother may believe Miss Adler, it would seem, is not yet done with us. Her messages are all dull and repetitive and hardly worth replying to.” Despite the strength in his tone I didn’t fail to notice that his hand was shaking marginally as he scrolled through his phone. “I think they call that flirting, Sher,” I smiled, tentatively placing a hand on his elbow. He didn’t withdraw, but there was clear confusion written all over his face when he looked at me. “Why would she _fake_ an intimate sound, but _flirt_ at me?”

“Women are a stupidly confusing lot, Sherlock,” I shook my head, “It could be that she’s honestly interested in you and was simply playing coy when she recorded that. It could be that she’s completely up to something and is only flirting at you to throw you off your game. Or maybe it _started_ that way but the two have blended together. I honestly don’t know.”

Sherlock groaned tiredly, flopping back to lean his temple on my shoulder almost petulantly, “I don’t understand ordinary people. They let emotions cloud their judgment so often they allow stupidity to rule their lives.” I hummed at that, setting my mug down beside his before leaning back and getting comfortable. “I do that too,” I countered, “What makes me so different from ordinary people?”

“Because you’re Kim,” Sherlock yawned as though pointing out the obvious, resuming his previous position, “You’re much too fascinating to be considered _ordinary_.”  
“Well, coming from you that’s a serious compliment.” I felt his deep chuckle reverberate through my shoulder at that and finally gave into the temptation to card my fingers through his still-drying hair, “What’re you going to do about Adler, then?”

“Same thing I’ve been doing,” he replied sleepily, “Ignore it and hope she goes away.”


	20. Merry

19 - Merry

 

“I thought we agreed; no _mistletoe_!”

“It’s a Christmas tradition, Sherlock, let Mrs. Hudson have her fun.”

Chuckling at the carrying argument I took the stairs two at a time on my way up, making sure to carefully balance the laundry basket I’d brought full of presents. When I looked up from my cursory check it was to discover Sherlock glaring daggers pressed as far away from me as he could in the kitchen doorway and a gleefully amused John further into the sitting room.

Doomingly I looked up at the poorly-taped sprig neatly between me and Sherlock before offering him a meek, “Oops?”

“Of all the times for your _stupidity_ to flare up, Kim,” Sherlock growled. “It’s tradition,” John practically cackled in mirthful sing-song. “You just maneuvered a hacker formerly known for having access to the _universe_ and probably the most _brilliant_ man in the _world_ into a situation neither of them particularly care for, John. I’d _strongly_ advise you to shut up before we murder you in your sleep,” I suggested icily. Properly abashed, John suddenly found himself very busy with tending to the hearth.

Sighing I turned back to Sherlock, who seemed as petrified about the situation as I felt. “Let’s just get it over with?” I suggested hesitantly. I couldn’t help but feel as though my stupidity would put off the atmosphere for the whole evening as he solemnly nodded. Meeting in the middle, we stared at each other awkwardly before I pushed myself closer and brushed my lips against the corner of his mouth. Withdrawing as though burnt, we then proceeded to busy ourselves in completely different pre-party activities.

Mrs. Hudson came up not long after that with about a billion bite-sized sweets and confectionaries, and by the time the pair of us had managed to make a spread of the kitchen table John’s latest girlfriend had already arrived and Lestrade was just pulling up. Sherlock had also, at first available chance, torn the mistletoe off the doorway and stuffed it rather creatively into the eye socket of the skull. Busy playing hostess and pouring drinks for everyone, I had a feeling I’d never get the chance to properly apologize about the thing. So, while Lestrade debated with himself about choosing Eggnog or wine, I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to Sherlock.

_We okay?_

I watched as he pulled the phone out, confused, read the text and smiled before Lestrade spoke up again. “Alright, I’m sticking with the Eggnog.”  
“Is that your final answer?” I sighed teasingly, pouring it anyway. The text reply that quickly followed made me smile as well.

**I highly doubt there will ever be a time in which the answer to that question will be no.**

“Why don’t you play us something, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson hinted cheerfully as I made my way over. “Oh, I couldn’t,” I heard him dismiss in a clear fish for a compliment. Grinning I perched on the edge of the table, setting my water down beside me, “Come on, you know you’re brilliant. Just one song?”

“Well, I suppose one song wouldn’t hurt.” Mirroring my grin he stepped between us to the window and pulled out his violin. I heard John quietly explaining to his girlfriend that yes, indeed, Sherlock could play. Just not at three in the morning.

What followed was a soft, almost hypnotically soothing medley of wintery cascades. Some pieces I could pick out easily, some I knew were of his own creation. I couldn’t help but wonder how long it had taken him to compose and put that together. Slowly picking up speed into something far more cheerful and bright, the piece ended with _We Wish You a Merry Christmas_ , and as the last note slid off the bow I readily joined in with the applause.

“That was lovely,” Mrs. Hudson cheered as the detective gave a quick bow. “Although, I wish you could have worn the antlers!”  
“Some things are best left to the imagination,” Sherlock winked. I couldn’t help but raise my eyebrows at the mental image, “You have _antlers_ and I haven’t seen them.”

“With good reason,” he countered, turning to put the violin away, “The last thing I need is an image of _that_ cropping up to battle with that hat photograph.”  
“Aw, c’mon, even if you took away all my electronics first?”  
“You, without electronics? The world would sooner end.”

“Behave, you two,” John scolded lightly, leaning against his usual armchair. “I’m totally behaving,” I pouted as John’s girlfriend came up and offered one of the trays of pies, almost as though in peace offering. “Oh, no thank you, Sarah,” Sherlock smiled politely. I only just managed to hide my snort of amusement in a cough and busied myself with my water when John rushed over stuttering an excuse about Sherlock not being good with names.

I couldn’t help but think that it would be easier to remember his girlfriends’ names if he had fewer of them.

“No, no, no, I can get this. No; Sarah was the doctor and then there was the one with the spots and the one with the nose and who was after the boring _teacher_?” Despite that last being directed at me the woman folded her arms across her chest and replied icily, “Nobody.”  
“Jeanette!” Sherlock smiled victoriously, “Ah. Process of elimination.”

“You remembered better than I did,” I muttered lowly into my glass as John led the steaming woman to the kitchen, “I could only remember it was a _juh_ something. I’ve been calling her _hun_ all night. I feel like my gran.”  
Sherlock’s responding chuckle was short-lived when he spotted who was coming up the stairs laden with gift bags. “Oh, dear lord,” Sherlock sighed. Thoroughly bundled, Molly seemed to have outdone herself in her primping. With more makeup than I’d ever seen on the girl she’d styled back her hair and pinned a wrapping bow over one ear. Her earrings were eye-catching and distractingly sparkly, and she nearly stumbled twice in her too-tall heels. Though pretty, the look seemed a bit much for the mousy girl.

Her smile faltered slightly when she took in my far more informal attire—simple, lilac sleeveless dress with a cowl neckline over faded blue jeans and my usual pair of dark amethyst strapped heels—and usual lack of makeup, but grew again when Lestrade all but tripped over himself to help her. “They would make a cute pair, wouldn’t they,” I tilted my head and smiled as I watched the two interact, muttering conspiratorially at Sherlock. “I revoke my previous statement,” he sighed in reply, dropping heavily in front of John’s laptop beside me, “We will never be _okay_ if you force me to play match-maker, regardless of whom with.”

“But you know I’m not wrong. And you don’t even have to do anything.” Smiling and briefly returning Molly’s cheerful wave I turned more fully towards Sherlock, slouching to keep the conversation more private as the other three ladies chatted, “You and I both know Lestrade’s marriage has been on the rocks for just about ever. All they need to do is get chatting, and to do that we just have to keep talking to each other.”

Warily he glanced up at me, no doubt searching for all of my tells, “Are you sure that’s not just an excuse to avoid talking to Jeanette?”  
“That certainly doesn’t hurt my reasoning, does it?”

Unimpressed, Sherlock gave me a very bored glare, “You’re sitting on my table.”  
“So I am,” I obediently dropped into the chair instead, reaching for one of the brownies on the tray I’d pushed aside before craning my neck to better see the laptop’s screen. “John,” Sherlock called over, “The counter on your blog. It still says one thousand eight hundred and ninety five.”  
“No, Christmas is canceled,” John groaned jokingly. Sherlock scrolled further down the page and frowned in disbelief, “You got a photograph of me wearing _that_ hat?!”  
“People like the hat,” John clapped his flat mate on the shoulder and walked off. “No they don’t! What people?” Sherlock demanded. I shrugged, “Apparently, it gives you a sexy air of mystery.”

He froze and stared at me in slack-jawed disbelief, and I raised my hands in defense, “ _Not_ my words. That’s straight off your fan site.”  
“I have a _fan site_? Since when?”

“Several, actually, since the hat photograph went viral,” I downed the last of my water before continuing, “Though unless you want to reduce your IQ to below Anderson’s, I’d advise against searching for them. I only came across a few of them when I was in the hospital and utterly bored out of my skull. Still, I’ve found they can be quite useful in learning what parts of London to avoid.” Sensing he still seemed wary, I leaned in with a conspiratorial murmur, “I also may or may not have anonymously given and ‘confirmed’ a tip-off that your real home is one of Mycroft’s false addresses.”

Sherlock grinned almost in spite of himself, “And here I thought you’d be giving out _dull_ presents this year.”  
“Yes, well, ‘Tis the Season and all that.” I vaguely registered Jeanette asking Mrs. Hudson about her hip and sat back with a light sigh, “Tea?”

“Tea,” he confirmed distractedly, attention returning to the laptop. Neither of us were much for alcohol, I knew, and at the very least it would give me something to do now that Molly and Lestrade seemed to have hit it off quite marvelously.

Closing my eyes as I waited for the kettle to boil, I tuned out the lulling conversations and instead focused on mapping out the way the kitchen was supposed to be. Nice though it was to know that the boys had made an effort to clean for the holiday, it felt too weird to stand in the absurdly experiment-free kitchen. I had nearly managed to conjure up a mental map of the room when the familiar, irritating faux-orgasm sounded through the flat.

My eyes snapped open as the kettle clicked off. _Adler_. Glancing into the room I watched as Molly, standing closest to Sherlock now, stuttered a flustered plea that it wasn’t her. “No, it was me,” Sherlock cut through her in a deadpan. The following chorus of disbelief had me biting back another snort of amusement as I busied myself with finishing the tea. “My _phone_ ,” he sighed exasperatedly. I listened to him walk over to the mantelpiece as all conversation seemed to have stopped before Mrs. Hudson asked hesitantly, “…Sherlock? What is it, love?”

“Excuse me,” Sherlock brushed through the room holding a small red-wrapped gift in hand, ignoring the other’s calls of confusion. Knowing it couldn’t be anything good, I turned to the room with a hesitant smile, “John, why don’t you lot, um, start on the presents? I’ll see if I can coax him out.” Snaring the mugs of tea I forced myself to go at an even pace and ignore the curious, confused, and worried stares that followed me through the kitchen.


	21. Christmas

20 – Christmas

 

_“No, I mean you’re going to find her dead.”_ Sherlock’s voice wafted softly out of the open door. I didn’t hide my presence as I quietly kicked the door latched behind me, crossing the room to set both mugs on the bedside table. “Leave,” he ordered quietly, not turning to face me. His posture said differently.

“Like hell I will,” I sighed, just as soft. Stubborn as he was he still didn’t look at me, so I dropped onto the bed opposite him and leaned back slowly until my head was parallel to his knee, staring at the ceiling and contenting myself in the simplicity of _not doing_.

There were no words passed, no answers given. I didn’t particularly care if he never explained what had happened. He wasn’t a sentimental person, and that was okay. Just the fact that he allowed me in his room, allowed me in even after removing himself from everyone else—that was more than I could ever ask of him.

Eventually the front door opened and closed a few times, and I knew the others were gone. Eventually, Sherlock sighed through his nose and leaned back as well, mirroring my position. When the call came through countless moments later he said not a word, and I could hear him swallow thickly as he lowered his phone again.

Our knuckles brushed as his hand fell back to the mattress, thumbing the end call button. Neither of us moved towards nor away from the contact.  
“I’m going with you,” I said softly after some time had passed. Sherlock sat up slowly, “No. Mycroft will be there.”  
“Damn Mycroft. You know he can’t get to me.”  
“I don’t need your bloody sentiment!”  
“Then you won’t get my _bloody sentiment_. Does it _look_ like I’m pitying you?”

For the first time since he’d retreated from the party, the detective looked at me. I watched as his face softened in what may have been understanding as he stared me down. “I told you once already, Sher,” I said softly, sitting up against the post of the bed, “I don’t care if I’m not your friend. You’re important to me, and no amount of you brooding or deducing or running around after crazy people is going to change that. Christmas Eve traffic is brutal. I don’t want you getting hurt because of that. Okay?”

Impossibly, his lips quirked upwards in what may have been an honest smirk before he stood and opened the door, “If you’re not ready in three minutes I’m walking there.”  
“Fair enough,” I agreed, meeting his hidden grin before racing out into the sitting room. Startled out of their murmured conversation, John and Jeanette both looked up at my sudden arrival. “What happened to coaxing him out?” John frowned. I rolled my eyes as I detangled my coat from the pile, “I quickly realized that wouldn’t happen.”

“Why not?” Jeanette asked perhaps more haughtily than intended. Still I was nearing the end of my rope with the woman, and didn’t bother to look at her when I replied, “Because he’s my friend, and I thankfully know him well enough to pick up on those kinds of things.”  
“So where are you off to, then?” John folded his arms over his chest as he stood. “Bart’s, I think. We’ll be back later.”

“Well, can’t it wait until after Christmas?” Mrs. Hudson asked worriedly, still sat by the fireplace. I gave her an apologetic smile and shook my head, finishing the last button before snagging my bag, “Unfortunately not. Listen, I promise we’ll be careful, okay? I’ll call once we’re done.”

Bart’s seemed deserted, eerily silent in the soft Christmas snow. Mycroft was waiting at the back entrance to the hospital as I pulled up and killed the engine. As soon as he saw me he pursed his lips and inhaled, seemingly ready to offer up a plethora of disapproving remarks. Before he could, however, I held up my hand for silence. “You can spare me the scolding speech, Mycroft. I’m not here for you and I quite honestly don’t give a damn about whatever opinion you have of me. I’m here for _Sherlock_. So, if you don’t mind, I think we should head inside before it gets much later or colder.”

He almost seemed reluctantly impressed at my intervention, and after looking between me and his little brother he gave a terse nod and held the door open, “Shall we?”

“Wait out here,” Sherlock ordered softly as he opened the door to the morgue several moments later. Mycroft ignored the pair of us and walked in himself, and the younger Holmes used that opportunity to give me a meaningful glance.

I wanted to argue and go in anyway. I wanted to tell him that I couldn’t be of much moral support if I was in the hallway. But I knew that would only make things worse. He didn’t want me to go in, so I bit my lips and nodded, stepping back to lean against the window opposite, “Okay.” As the door swung shut I slid down to the floor, not particularly caring how sanitary it was or how dirty my dress was going to be.

It didn’t take Sherlock long to stride back out, and before I could so much as shift he clenched the frame of the window and bowed his head. I could see the pained confusion in the scrunch of his eyes and the purse of his lips, and tentatively I reached up to gently pry one of his hands away. Even through his gloves I could tell he’d been holding a white-knuckled grip. To my surprise he allowed the touch, his eyes opening to bore into mine.

I wasn’t sure he was even _seeing_ what he looked at. Patiently I watched his hazel blues flicker back-and-forth between my eyes, and eventually he straightened back into a neutral standing position to stare out the window. His hand dropped from mine to slide into his coat pocket just as Mycroft walked back out.

Shuffling to my feet I met the balding man’s pointed stare evenly—I’d proven I wasn’t going to budge quite thoroughly already—and he sighed before offering his brother a single cigarette.

Sherlock turned to him slightly, “Why.”  
“Merry Christmas,” Mycroft countered simply. Neither of them paid me any attention as Sherlock took the cigarette, “Smoking indoors, isn’t that…isn’t that one of those law things?”

Shrugging marginally, Mycroft pulled out a lighter and held its flame out for his brother, “We’re in a morgue. There’s only so much damage you can do.”

Holding his first lungful of smoke in, Sherlock gave me a pointed glance. I nodded in understanding—this wasn’t my conversation to hear. “I’ll be by the car, Sherlock. Merry Christmas, Mycroft.”

 

Mycroft was nowhere to be found when Sherlock strode out some time later, tossing the bud of his cigarette into the snow. I hadn’t moved since taking up my perch on the hood of my car, so I had no idea what time it was, but I honestly couldn’t bring myself to care. “You’ve ruined your dress sitting in the snow like that,” Sherlock scolded in way of greeting. All I could manage to reply was a shrug, “It’s just a dress. The cold air helps me think.”

Sighing vocally he spun on his heel and fell into a lean beside me, elbows hooking onto the hood as he stared up at the snowy sky. Neither of us said a word, in the darkened quiet of the night, and eventually he slid over and leaned his head on my hip. “What’s it like, sentiment?”

I set a hand gently on his other shoulder, pleased when he didn’t twitch away, and stared out at the still-falling snow. “It’s different for everybody,” I said after a moment. “It can be as painful as a re-set bone or as giddy as solving a particularly interesting case. Like the warmth of a fireplace or the bite of an icepack. Find any line of poetry and it can be related to sentiment.”

Sherlock closed his eyes when my hand tentatively shifted into his hair, and I could feel his gradually steadying breath on my thigh. “Sounds _tedious_.” To that I chuckled, “It can be. But you know what? There’s nothing wrong with not liking or wanting sentiment.”  
“The world would beg to differ.”  
“Then screw the world. If you don’t want to deal with emotions, then Sherlock Holmes you have absolutely no obligation to.”

He hummed in what may have been a humoring tone. Another silence stretched before I spoke again, “I do know this; change for the sake of anyone but yourself isn’t worth it. I’d rather you be yourself, with your gory experiments and that giddy look you get when confronted with a serial murder, than anything or anyone else. Because if you were anything less, you wouldn’t be Sherlock Holmes, would you?”

I could feel his lips curl in a light smile against the side of my hip before he pulled away, staring into the distance. Echoing through London, Big Ben tolled midnight, and Sherlock gave a hefty sigh, “Merry Christmas, Kim.” Knowing my chance of physical comfort was up I grinned and followed his gaze, “Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

We sat in companionable silence a moment longer before I hopped down and gently elbowed him, “C’mon; at this rate we’d be better off with a good night’s sleep before facing John or Mrs. H. I’ll let you test-run R9’s hot cocoa command?”

“Avoiding stupid questions at stupid hours _and_ free cocoa? Now how could I _possibly_ say no to that?”


	22. Mind Palace

21 – Mind Palace

 

Sherlock was downstairs when I came home from the super the next morning. Sprawled like the dead he’d made himself quite comfortable on the sofa, shoes kicked off and jacket tossed haphazardly onto the armchair. It was only by the twitch of his eyelids and the light jerk of his steepled fingertips in front of his chin that I knew he wasn’t asleep.

Knowing still he was likely deep in thought, I did my best to not disturb him, manually setting R9 to system lock before dropping the shopping onto the kitchenette island. “You’ve been gone a while,” he called dazedly, still not moving. “Yes, well, all the close stores were closed.” There was a hum and a light rustle, and when I looked back over Sherlock was sat cross-legged with his back to the armrest, staring at me, “John phoned a little while ago. I let R9 get it.”  
“What’d he say?”  
“That I’m missing and last night was, apparently, a _danger night_. Care to explain?”

I honestly had to think that one through, and told as much by my shrug. “Sentiment? He’s probably worried you’ll have done something stupid because of what happened.” In response he gave another hum, forefingers tapping together as his gaze slid to the wall-mounted phone.

Several moments later, after I’d pulled out the pre-made muffins and just finished the coffee, he spoke up again. “What were you doing? Last night, after you’d gone to make the tea. What were you thinking about?” Well, if that wasn’t random. I blinked a few times, trying to remember, before grinning sheepishly. “It felt weird to see the kitchen so clean. I was trying to map the place out the way it should be.”

“Were you successful?” I didn’t really get what was so exciting about that, but headed over and offered his breakfast, “Sort of? It didn’t quite _look_ as accurate as it should have, but it _felt_ pretty darn close.” Realizing he was waiting for me to elaborate, I did my best to describe what I’d seen.

The walls weren’t really _there_ , more just an irrelevant end of the room, and I could _sense_ each item whenever I focused on one. The clink of dishes or lab equipment, the hiss of the tap and the hum of the microwave. The grind of a blender and the bubble of boiling water. The occasional shift of a chair or the drum of fingers on the edge of the cluttered table. I could feel the cool bite of metal from the refrigerator handle and the warm steam of the kettle, the smooth contour of the microscope I’d never touched and the refreshing chill of air from opening the freezer.

Realizing I’d all but zoned out during my explanation, I looked back over at Sherlock to discover him grinning pensively. “Interesting,” he muttered, almost to himself, when I’d stopped trying to describe it. “What is,” I asked hesitantly. Blinking himself back to the present, Sherlock stood in a tangle of limbs to pace in front of me, “What you described implies that you’ve catalogued your experiences much in the same way I catalogue facts. Last night, I think you scratched the surface of your mind palace, and not only that, but yours has taken the form of 221B.”

“Mind palace,” I frowned. The term was vaguely familiar—I’d heard him mention it before, but only ever in passing. “A memory technique used to catalogue what you know. The place itself is fairly irrelevant; it merely houses the information. Now, all this time I assumed the mind palace was merely for factual knowledge. But if I’m right—and I usually am—then with enough practice you can hone in on that to recall even the simplest of situations.”

“So each experience manifests inside the room that corresponds the closest,” I guessed, watching him pace. “Personal in the bedroom, intimate in the bathroom, experiences with other people in the sitting room, food-related in the kitchen?”  
“Domestic in the kitchen,” Sherlock corrected, “Every sound and touch you described were in a home setting, and not all of them were about food.”  
“Neat,” I grinned before realizing, “Hold on, what about the parts I’ve never been to in the flat? I’ve never been upstairs. Does it include Mrs. Hudson’s flat, too?”

“Only one way to find out,” Giddily he scooped up his shoes and dropped into the armchair, making short work of the laces. “If you’re implying we go over there, whatever you’re planning will have to be put on the backburner.”

When he looked back up confusion had replaced excitement. “The pair of them are worried, remember? John probably still doesn’t know what happened, only that you disappeared in the middle of the party, I went off after you, and we took off for Bart’s. You never came home last night and if we’re lucky they still haven’t phoned Lestrade.” Frowning still Sherlock made to question why they’d do that when I leveled him with a look. “Sentiment, Sher. I’m _drowning_ in it, remember?”

Frown quickly made way into a full-on pout. I sighed, “Tell you what; we’ll go over there, explain what happened. Mrs. H probably has some big Christmas plan for an early dinner, and we still have to do presents. And afterwards, I _promise_ we can do _whatever_ you want. Deal?”

The pout lasted a moment longer before Sherlock gave an all-suffering sigh and stood to don his jacket, “ _Fine_. But if they’ve put the mistletoe back up I will not be held responsible for my actions.”


	23. Play

22 – Play

 

Eventually, as I knew it would, the novel idea of my mind palace wore out its excitement for Sherlock. John still gave me the occasional _look_ about the whole thing, but at least things had settled into a bit of calm around 221B. Wisely the boys had agreed on a quiet night in for New Year’s, which strangely enough meant that any other plans _I’d_ thought up had to be canceled.

“He’s gone into full on shut-down mode or something,” John had told me earlier in the day, “It’s like he isn’t even trying to be himself anymore. He just stands by the window composing or staring inside his own head.”  
“He’s not that bad,” I’d countered. “Yes, he is. You only just don’t see it because when you’re around it’s like he’s willing to try and move on.”

So, after a rather dull end to my shift at the Yard, I found myself using my Christmas present and letting myself into 221B. A soft, sad melody echoed through the stairwell; I followed it up to find John eating at the table and Sherlock stood at the window playing his violin.

“Oh, hey, Kim. Glad you could make it.” John stood to give me the typical one-armed hug and peck on the cheek. “Traffic’s pretty tame out there; looks like most people are staying in.”  
“I was just going to text you, actually. I forgot to grab the sparkling cider for tonight.”  
“Take my car. I think Murphy’s should still be open if you hurry.”

As John scrambled for his coat Mrs. Hudson came through to collect what was left of their dinner—John’s clean plate and Sherlock’s untouched one. Said sleuth had paused his song to scribble a few notes onto the page beside him, ignoring the room as a whole. Both Mrs. Hudson and John gave me rather pointed looks before the Landlady walked back into the kitchen, “Lovely tune, Sherlock. Haven’t heard that one before.”

When Sherlock said nothing, gave no appearance of having heard, John answered with a strained smile, “Composing.” The pair left then, so I dropped my coat on the back of John’s usual armchair and stepped up behind the sleuth to read the sheet music. 

“Are you here to tell me I’m not acting like myself and that _it’s okay to mourn her_ , too?” Sherlock asked icily, still scribbling notes and rests and accents. “No, I’m here to spend New Year’s with my two best friends and their grandmotherish landlady. I know you’re not daft—you know they’re worried about you.”  
“And you aren’t?”

“Not especially. It’s none of my business if you feel the need to consume yourself with composing. And really, it does look lovely.” Once he’d set the pencil down I plucked the sheet off the music stand, crossing to the middle of the room as I wordlessly sang what he’d put down so far.

Reaching the end I turned and smiled over at him. He had an unreadable expression on his face as he stared at me. Were it anybody else I’d hazard a guess that it was awe, but I couldn’t be sure. “Composing’s not all that different from coding,” I explained softly, walking back to hand the sheet to him, “I took piano until I was eight.”

Eventually Sherlock twitched a sort of baffled grin as he absently returned the page back to his stand. Turning back to the window he once more poised to play, “I don’t suppose I will ever come to understand…” He trailed off as something caught his eye, grin dropping into a concerned frown. “John didn’t take your keys.”

I dashed to the opposite window just in time to see a black, unmarked car drive off. “Grab your coat, he may be in trouble.” All but dropping his violin into the shorter armchair Sherlock raced for his room. “D’you think it’s Mycroft?”  
“The woman who met him wasn’t one of Mycroft’s, and the license plate had the wrong number.”

“Shit,” I couldn’t help but breathe, not even bothering with my coat as we raced down the stairs. Indeed, John had dropped my keys on the floor in the mudroom before going off. I scooped them up quickly and only managed a promise we would be back to Mrs. Hudson’s confused questions. “Tablet’s in the glove box,” I explained absently as we got in, “R9 can track the chip in his scrambler.”

Following Sherlock’s directions I tailed the car to an abandoned factory. Before I could so much as kill the engine he’d turned to me sternly, “Wait here. Leave the engine running. Don’t talk to _anyone_ , even if they’re police. Understood?”

“Don’t worry about me, go,” I nodded, gently shoving him towards the door. Nodding in return he gave the tablet one final glance before dashing off.

When he came back, to my utmost surprise, he looked more lost than I had ever seen him before. Entering slowly he stared at the dashboard for a long moment, still not saying a word. Gently I reached over, turning in my seat to face him fully, and rested a hand on his arm. As though spurred to life by the touch Sherlock inhaled, “Sh—”

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, Sher,” I interrupted softly, “Just—is John okay?” Dazedly he nodded, still not seeing anything. Squeezing lightly in what I hoped was reassurance I nodded as well, “Okay,” and drove back towards Baker Street.

Noticing my usual spot was taken I let Sherlock out first before doubling back to park. Frowning at the fact that Sherlock had left the door wide open, I felt a sense of unease the moment I stepped in. Mrs. Hudson had left a bucket of cleaning supplies in the entryway, her door was ajar, and all of 221 held a sort of eerie hush about it. In the murmured gaggle of voices up the stairs I could pick out Sherlock’s easily enough, though what was being said I couldn’t tell.

In the few days that Sherlock seemed obsessed with fine-tuning my mind palace I’d come to learn every inch of the flat. It wasn’t difficult in the slightest to avoid the loud stairs, and toing off my heels beforehand made me all but noiseless on the way up. “—been asking this one, she doesn’t seem to know anything,” a familiar ghost of the past echoed out from the sitting room. Hid in the corner between the doorways I felt my blood boil when Mrs. Hudson’s weeping followed. In a last-minute decision I pulled my hair out of its usual ponytail and re-parted my bangs. Letting the familiarity of it seep around me like a blanket I opened the floodgates, mentally walking myself to the closet of the bedroom and donning Lunar Anne even as I physically backed down the stairs.

The henchmen came one at a time, stupidly, and I waited for them in the mudroom. The loud footfalls of the second masked the quiet groan as I kneed the first in the crotch, jabbing the pressure point in his neck before quickly doing the same to the second.

Flinging the pair carelessly to the curb I gave the door an exaggerated slam before stealthily making my way back up.   
“Mind if I check?” the agent asked. Sherlock held his arms wide, “Oh, I _insist_.” Waiting for him to do so, Sherlock slipped a can of aerosol out from his coat sleeve, sprayed the man in the eyes, and head-butted him into the coffee table. “ _Moron_.”

Taking my cue I entered, grabbing up the man’s gun and aiming it for his face before he could do anything. Sherlock had turned his full attention onto Mrs. Hudson, reassuring the slowly-calming woman that she was safe. 

The agent glared up at me, and I felt a familiar Cheshire grin curl onto my face. “Well, well, well. How did I know you’d be in the middle of all of this, _Lunar Anne_?”  
“You know, you’re really not in a position to do much of anything besides _pray_ , agent.”  
“That’s the same man who attacked us at Adler’s place,” Sherlock explained. “I’m not surprised. Agent Chris Jones, CIA. Put a _bounty_ on my head after his _brother_ failed to make off with my key and nearly got himself killed.”

By the time John had returned I’d managed to reign in my inner demon and hide her back in the closet after giving Jones a rather sound punch to the face. To my surprise Sherlock allowed me thus, sitting with Mrs. Hudson before sending me down to tape a note on the door— **Crime in progress PLEASE DISTURB**. Noticing the lack of henchmen I couldn’t help but grin, glad we wouldn’t need to worry about them.

When John came up we had switched roles; Sherlock sat glaring venomously at the bound agent with the captured gun held steady in one hand, phoning Lestrade with the other, while I sat on the sofa with my arm around Mrs. Hudson. “What’s going on?” John asked. Seeing the trussed and gagged man, he added, “Jesus, what the hell happened?”

“Mrs. Hudson’s been attacked by an American, we’re restoring balance to the universe.”  
Slipping into full-on doctor mode, John dropped to the landlady’s other side checking her over. “Go take her downstairs,” I said softly as Sherlock stood to cross the room. “Aren’t you—”  
“Not this time.” Catching my heated glare at the American John nodded, gently escorting Mrs. Hudson down towards her flat. 

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said into his phone, still aiming the gun at the agent’s heart, “We’ve had a break-in at Baker Street. Send your _least_ irritating officers and an ambulance. Oh, no, no, no. We’re fine. No, it’s the um, it’s the burglar. He’s got himself rather badly injured. Oh a few broken ribs, fractured skull. Suspected punctured lung.” I couldn’t withhold the Cheshire grin at Jones’ reaction to that as Sherlock ended simply, “he fell out of a window.”

Setting the phone and the gun on the table he motioned me over. “So, _Anne_.” I had a feeling he was enjoying this, a feeling that only made my grin grow. “Shall you go first or shall I?”


	24. Hail

23 – Hail

 

“And exactly how many times _did_ he fall out of the window?” Lestrade asked in clear exasperation. Inner beast tamed, I’d made sure to return my hair to it’s typical side-part and high-ponytail before the team had arrived, and was currently stood on the curb beside Sherlock and Lestrade as we watched the ambulance drive off. “Oh, it’s all a bit of a blur, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock admitted, as we shared a side-long glance, “I lost count.”

It wasn’t that surprising that Lestrade gave us a knowing, impressed look before walking off without another word. “Were you really that different back then?” Sherlock asked quietly as the rest of the team rolled out. I gave a deep sigh, “I s’pose I was. Fell into the wrong sort of crowd in Uni, and once I finished the key I’d convinced myself I was king of the universe. After it almost got stolen, I guess I got taken down a few notches. So, I started with a clean slate. Buried myself in a dull life. Somewhere along the way…I realized how little it all meant if I wasn’t using those skills for the people I care about.”

Sharing a brief, honest smile a moment Sherlock jerked his head back towards the flat, “time to suffer the stupid questions, then?”  
“Oh, if we have to,” I mock-sighed, “though first thing tomorrow morning I’m going to start installing R9. We are _not_ getting another break in around here.”  
“Fair enough,” Sherlock conceded, leading the way inside.

The door to 221A led straight into a cozy kitchen. It was very retro and suited the old landlady perfectly, from the strange shade of green of the fridge to the flowery wallpaper to the beaded curtain draped behind the door.

“She’ll have to sleep upstairs in our flat tonight,” John told Sherlock the moment we’d entered, “We need to look after her.”  
“I’ll stay over,” I offered. Sherlock nudged me out of the way to dig a pastry out of the fridge, “Oh, she’s fine.”  
“No, she’s not. Look at her!” John frowned, “You should go and take some time away from Baker Street, you can stay with your sister—doctor’s orders.”

“Don’t be absurd.”  
“She’s in _shock_ , for god’s sake, and all over some bloody stupid camera phone.” Then, looking around, “Where is it, anyway?” Grinning impishly as he wiped off a crumb, Sherlock turned towards Mrs. Hudson, “Safest place I know.”

Much more herself, the landlady pulled said phone out from the inside of her shirt and handed it over with a chuckle, “He left it in the pocket of his second best dressing gown, the _clot_. I managed to sneak it out when they thought I was having a cry.” Sherlock thanked her and tucked the mobile into his coat before turning to narrow his eyes at John, “ _Shame on you_ , John Watson.”

“Shame on _me_ ,” the doctor repeated. Stepping closer to the still-seated woman Sherlock hugged her to his side, “Mrs. Hudson _leave_ Baker Street? England would _fall_!” Using his distracted mock-scold to my advantage I swiped the sleuth’s pastry. “Wha— _hey_! They’re right behind you, get your own,” he pouted. “ _You_ never get _your_ own,” I countered childishly, taking a hearty bite. 

“Alright, alright, you children,” Mrs. Hudson laughed, “Go on upstairs and have your little sit-in. I told Mrs. Turner I’d stay on the phone with her and watch the ball drop.”  
Chased upstairs as we were I soon found myself once more barefoot, curled into Sherlock’s usual armchair fiddling with my necklace. “What was that about, anyway,” John asked me once he’d returned back from his room. “Lunar Anne had a score to settle,” Sherlock answered instead, idly plucking at his violin. “Who better to help restore balance to the universe than the girl with the universal key?” I agreed with a brief grin. John looked between us before seemingly deciding he didn’t want to know, instead retreating to the kitchen to pour himself a drink. 

“Whatever’s on that phone is more than just pictures,” John began slowly. Sherlock’s reply was short and dismissive. “Yes it is.” Grimacing the doctor came to stand in the middle of the room, looking between the pair of us. “So, she’s alive, then.” It wasn’t that big of a leap to figure out who _she_ was, given Sherlock’s reaction earlier. If John noticed my surprise at that he didn’t comment, staring at his flat mate, “How are we feeling about that?”

Before Sherlock could answer Big Ben tolled out into the night. He didn’t reply, and I didn’t move, feeling content at the moment to be invisible to the pair. It wasn’t my place to jump in.

“Do you think you’ll be seeing her again?” John prodded quietly. Sherlock held his violin out for me to hold before grabbing the page of sheet music off his stand. I watched as his gaze flit over the notes before he crossed behind me to drop it into the fireplace. He met John’s gaze first, smiling tiredly, “Happy New Year, John.”

Feeling safe to join the conversation again I stood, giving Sherlock a pointed look and jerking the violin out of his reach. “It _is_ a tradition,” I reminded him. The detective rolled his eyes, “Oh, if I must,” and obediently turned his head so I could peck him on the cheek. Grinning I surrendered the instrument, moving to stand beside John and allowing him to kiss my temple as Sherlock started up a simple rendition of _Auld Lang Syne_. 

“Hail to the new year,” I sighed contentedly.


	25. Challenge

24 – Challenge 

 

**Come to Baker Street. Bring extra clothes. Don’t argue. Try to keep your stupidity from flaring up. SH**

Of all the random, pointless things that Sherlock Holmes had texted to me over the months that I’d known him, that was perhaps the most confusing. Nipping my questions in the bud I flicked off my soldering iron and had R9 send off a quick _on my way_ as I grabbed the first tee and jeans I could find, snagged my things, and headed off. 

When I got to Baker Street John and Sherlock were arguing softly in the kitchen, and I could just hear the sound of the shower running. The moment Sherlock saw me his face split into a bright grin, “Hello, dear.” Scooped into a hug I caught John’s irked shake of the head over the detective’s shoulder. I had a sinking suspicion what the whole _stupidity_ comment was about and managed a grin, “’lo, love.”

“How was work?”  
“Oh, the usual, paperwork and stupid people. You said something about extra clothes?”  
“Yes,” it was John who answered, “We had a client come over but she needed a shower first.”

“Things happen,” I agreed easily enough, detangling from the clingy octopus that seemed to have taken over Sherlock. Grabbing the dropped pile of clothes I made to take them to the bathroom when John intervened. Sherlock herded me to his armchair, perching on one of the arms and once more draping himself around me. “The client is Miss Adler,” he murmured lowly into my ear, slipping something into my back pocket, “don’t interfere unless you need to, but keep a sharp eye. Don’t tell her your full name. She’s up to something.”

John came in then, and at Sherlock’s subtly pointed shift I stood to put on the kettle. It had just started to boil when a new voice echoed through. “These are a bit small. Are you sure I can’t borrow something of yours?” Irene Adler stopped beside the fridge, smiling predatorily at me, “Oh, and who is this little flower?”  
“You must be the client,” I smiled politely and offered a hand, “I’m Kim. Don’t mind me, I won’t be bothering you.”

Tea served, I dropped onto the sofa and pulled out my tablet as Sherlock began. “So who’s after you?”  
“People who want to kill me.”’  
“Who’s that?”  
“Killers?” I managed not to look up at her stating-the-obvious tone, if only just. “It would help if you were a tiny bit more specific,” John pointed out. Sherlock, it seemed, had decided to ignore everything and everyone but Adler. “So you faked your own death in order to get ahead of them.”

“It worked for a while,” she agreed. “Except you let John know that you were alive and therefore me.”  
“I knew _you’d_ keep my secret.”  
“ _You_ couldn’t.”

At the edge of my vision I saw them share a level stare before she continued, “But you did, didn’t you?” When he had no reply she smiled and sat back in the armchair, including John into the conversation, “Where’s my camera phone?”

“It’s not here,” John sighed, setting his cup and saucer down, “we’re not stupid.”

“Then what have you done with it?” I felt her gaze sweep to me, piercing and demanding. I didn’t falter, calmly shifting into a more comfortable position without breaking my gaze from the tablet. I knew from this angle she could probably see that I was reading what looked like an ordinary e-book, and could easily follow as my eyes traveled naturally over the screen. After a moment she gave up, regarding Sherlock instead, “If they’ve guessed you’ve got it, they’ll be watching you.”

“If they’ve been watching me they’ll know I took a safety deposit box at a bank on the Strand a few months ago.”  
“I need it,” Adler demanded simply. “Well,” John looked between the two, “we can’t just go and get it, can we?” After half a beat he turned back towards Sherlock, “Molly Hooper. She could collect it, take it to Bart’s. Then one of your network could bring it here, leave it in the café. Then one of the boys could take it ‘round the back.”

“Very good, John. Excellent plan. Full of intelligent precautions.” I only just managed to hide my smirk when Sherlock pulled said camera phone out of his pocket, successfully curbing John’s plan. Like a hawk Adler honed in on it, standing with the need for action but unable to think of what to do. “So, what _do_ you keep on here? In general, I mean.”

She folded her arms over her chest, “Pictures, messages, anything I might find useful.” John frowned at that, “For blackmail, you mean.”

“For _protection_. I make my way in the world; I _misbehave_. I like to know people will be on my side exactly when I need them.” That wasn’t the first time it’d been described as such. I recalled several hackers I’d worked with over my more formidable years who would do the exact same thing; magpie the information away to make themselves invincible. Unfortunately for Adler, each and every one of them saw their empires _fall_.

“So how do you acquire this information?”  
“I told you—I _misbehave_.”  
“But you’ve acquired something that’s more _danger_ than _protection_ , do you know what it is?”  
“Yes. But I don’t understand it.”  
“I assumed. Show me.”

After a brief, wordless quarrel, Sherlock relented the phone to her, and she keyed something in before frowning, “It’s not working.”  
“No, because it’s a duplicate I had made into which you just entered the numbers 1058.” Standing victoriously Sherlock turned to smile charmingly at me, “Kim, darling?”

Grinning I locked the tablet’s screen before standing, fishing the phone out of my back pocket. Following my instinct I pecked his cheek as I handed it over.   
“I assumed you’d choose something more specific than that, but, uh, thanks anyway.” As Sherlock keyed the number in I met Adler’s glare with an open stare, stealing the sleuth’s just-vacated chair and unlocking my tablet. Only when the phone buzzed signaling an incorrect password did she turn back to Sherlock. “I told you that camera phone is my life. I know when it’s in my hands.”

“Oh, you’re rather good,” Sherlock conceded, handing the thing over. “You’re not so bad,” Adler smirked. In the reflection of my tablet I saw them staring at each other, and shared a mildly disturbed look with John before clearing my throat rather pointedly. I heard Sherlock exhale slowly as he slipped a hand onto my shoulder. Almost as though nothing had happened she continued, walking around us to type in the password, “There was a man, an MoD official, and I knew what he liked. One of the things he liked was showing off. He told me this email was going to save the world. He didn’t know it at the time but I photographed it. He was a bit _tied up_ at the time.”

I rather pointedly rolled my eyes as she handed it to Sherlock to read. Frowning he dropped into the other chair at the table, eyes darting as he took in whatever it was. “It’s a bit small on that screen, can you read it?” Eyes locked on me the whole time she rather provocatively draped herself over Sherlock’s shoulder. I raised an unimpressed eyebrow in response. “Code, obviously,” she continued, as though there was nothing wrong with her position, “I had one of the best cryptographers in the world take a look at it—though he was mostly upside down, as I recall. Couldn’t figure it out.” Catching John’s vaguely curious grimace I realized she was doing that intentionally, too. I kicked the doctor in the shin as subtly as I could and gave him a _look_.

“What can you do, Mister Holmes?” As Sherlock leaned his free elbow onto the table she leaned into his space impossibly closer, “go on; impress a girl.” Strangely, his eyes slid to _me_ when she said that, and by the time she’d pecked his cheek he took a deep breath and glanced at the phone’s screen again, “There’s a margin for error, but I’m pretty sure there’s a 747 leaving Heathrow tomorrow at 6:30 in the evening for Baltimore. Apparently it’s going to save the world, not sure how that could be true, but give me a moment, I’ve only been on the case for eight seconds.” Blinking after his linear train of thought he first caught my thoroughly impressed grin, then John’s baffled stare and Adler’s minor disbelief.

He nearly rolled his eyes, “Oh, come on, it’s not code, these are seat allocations on a passenger jet. Look!” Pausing only long enough to show John and myself, he continued in the same breath, “There’s no letter I because it can be mistaken for a one. No letters past K, the width of the plane is the limit. The numbers always appear randomly and not in sequence, but the letters have little runs of sequence all over the place. Families and couples sitting together. Only a jumbo is wide enough to need a letter K or rows past 55, which is why there’s always an upstairs. There’s a row 13 which eliminates the more superstitious airlines. Then there’s the style of the flight number, zero-zero-seven, that eliminates a few more. And assuming the British point of origin, which would be logical considering the original source of the information and assuming from the increased pressure on you lately that the crisis is imminent; the only flight that matches all the criteria and departs within the week is the 6:30 to Baltimore tomorrow evening from Heathrow airport.”

Sherlock paused only long enough to breathe a few times, still, strangely, staring at me. “Please feel free to tell me that was remarkable or amazing or any other possible variant available to the English language.”

“Fantastic as always, love,” I smiled at his pleased grin. When he threaded his fingers through mine I found it no small victory that Adler sent me another glare and withdrew to a more respectable distance. Only once she had done so, but still not taking his eyes off of mine, Sherlock spoke again, “John, please can you check those flight schedules, see if I’m right?”

I felt him shift as though startled into action, and the doctor still seemed miles away when he replied, “Yeah, I’m on it, yeah,” before clearing his throat. After a brief silence he nodded, “Uh, yeah, you’re right. Flight double-oh-seven.”

Sherlock frowned, leaning back in his chair to regard his flat mate fully, “What did you say?” John blinked, confused, “You’re right?”  
“No, no, no, after that, what did you say after that?”  
“Double-oh-seven. Flight double-oh-seven.”  
Sherlock was up and pacing around the room in the blink of an eye, constantly repeating _double-oh-seven_ under his breath. I couldn’t blame him—it snagged something in my memory as well, but before I could put my finger on it I realized Adler’s thumb was moving across her phone’s keyboard.

Leaping from my own chair I grabbed her wrist, “Who did you just text?”  
“Please. What makes you think I texted anybody? I’m supposed to be _dead_ , remember?”  
“Then why do you look like a _deer in the headlights_ , Miss Adler?” I narrowed my eyes when she promptly tried to shrug it off, still keeping my hand locked around her wrist. “You just leapt at me out of nowhere, anyone would be surprised at that.”

Walking up behind me John gently grabbed my elbow, “Kim, don’t you think maybe you’re overreacting?”

“It’s possible,” Obediently releasing the woman I kept her stare until she looked over at my shoulder to thank John pleasantly. “But I know I’m not,” I finished, dropping onto the sofa. Sherlock was far-gone in his thoughts, sightlessly pulling himself into his armchair to absently pluck at his violin. He needed to know, but I knew if I were to tell him anything at the moment it wouldn’t even go in one ear to get out the other. Settling down for what was likely a long wait I closed my eyes, expanding my other senses to compensate.


	26. Mistakes

25 – Mistakes 

 

It wasn’t the first time I’d pulled off the feigned-sleep meditation. I’d long ago learned that the best way to gather information was to lead the prey into the belief that they weren’t being eavesdropped. In person, that meant a simple, meditative consciousness, a pair of headphones tucked into an empty pocket, the long-mastered feigned reading trick. Subtle things that implied one’s attention was elsewhere.

Playing asleep I expanded my other senses to compensate, keeping my breath deep and even and my body still and relaxed. I listened as John tried a conversation several times, only for it to idle each time. I felt as the sun drifted away and saw through my eyelids as the room darkened. John lit a fire, though Sherlock remained oblivious to the world, and eventually draped the fleece plaid throw over me. I burrowed into the warmth of it, giving an appropriate hum of contentment before settling. Giving a soft snort of amusement at that John proceeded to answer Adler’s brief questions about my “relationship” with Sherlock as honestly as he could without giving the game away.

Eventually John had a text come through and retreated off to the pub, thankfully _not_ taking my car. It was several hours after that and well past sundown that Sherlock spoke at last, “Coventry.”

“I’ve never been,” Adler answered, “Is it nice?” Judging by the distance she seemed to have taken up John’s armchair, though I couldn’t be sure without risking opening my eyes. A silence followed, before a very confused Sherlock asked, “Where’s John?”

“He…went out. A couple of hours ago.”  
“I was just talking to him.”  
“He said you do that.” _Liar_ , I thought. John said no such thing. Adler continued, “What’s Coventry got to do with this?”

I heard him shift, probably setting his violin aside, before continuing at a much softer tone—he must have seen me, then. “It’s a story…probably not true. In the second world war the Allies knew that Coventry was going to get bombed because they’d broken the German code. But they didn’t want the Germans to _know_ they’d broken the code so they let it happen anyway.”

“Have you ever had anyone?” It took more willpower than I cared to admit to not break my cover in the silence that followed. Something buzzed on the table. “And by _had_ I’m being indelicate.”  
“I don’t understand.” Sherlock sounded uncomfortable. There was a rustle of limbs and someone’s knees hitting the floor, “I’ll be delicate, then. Let’s have dinner.”  
“Why?”  
“You might be hungry.”  
“I’m not.”  
“Good.”

Sherlock’s next reply was awkwardly halting and so dangerously quiet I had to strain to hear it. “Why would I…want to have…dinner…if I wasn’t hungry?”

Whatever Adler replied with, I couldn’t hear it over the crackle of the fireplace. The thing buzzed again, and I realized it was my tablet—R9, in fact. Probably someone at the door—after I’d upgraded it to a standard system-lock and basic facial scan, I’d also set it up that all my electronics would patch into that alert once inside 221 after Sherlock rather petulantly refused to cross the room and grab his own mobile to see who was at the door.

I’d never been so grateful to hear Mrs. Hudson holler up the stairs, “Sherlock?” I only just caught Sherlock’s mutter of “That’s not the end of the world, that’s Mrs. Hudson,” as said landlady clopped up the stairs. “Sherlock, this man was at the door, is the bell still not working? He shot it!”  
“Have you come to take me away, _again_ ,” Sherlock demanded irritably. “Yes, Mister Holmes.”  
“Well, I decline.” There was a rustle, then, “I don’t think you do.”

After a moment, Sherlock and the newcomer left. I listened to them drive off in the silent night before Adler spoke again, clearly into a phone, “He’s gone, get over here. And hurry up, I’ll need to get ready.” Only once I heard the front door slam again and another car pull up and then away did I fling into action. Grabbing my phone first I fired a text to Sherlock before snagging my tablet and keys, taking the stairs two at a time. I hastily reminded Mrs. Hudson to set the security lock and to tell John I would be back later before flying out the door.

“R9, scan and lock-on to scrambler chip SHERLOCK.” Allowing the tablet’s GPS to navigate I admittedly found most of my focus on my text-conversation with Sherlock.

_F A K E._  
 **I had a feeling you weren’t really asleep. Why didn’t you ‘wake up’ to tell me this earlier?**  
 _I still wasn’t sure. She sent a text to someone when you first got lost in thought and John didn’t believe me. I needed her to think I wasn’t an issue after you’d left._  
 **And?**  
 _She called her ride practically as soon as you’d pulled away. Didn’t see where but she’ll probably meet you wherever you’re going._  
 **I see. And you are following as well, yes?**  
 _I’ll get there before she does. I’m three cars behind you._  
 **So you are. I have a feeling we’ve made a mistake in taking her on as a client, Kim.**  
 _Don’t worry. If it boils down to a cat fight, I highly doubt she was trained in self-defense by Lestrade like I was. Whatever she thinks she’s playing at, you and I both know you’ll come out on top._  
 **Will I?**

It was more than a little unnerving that his last reply seemed so uncertain. I’d followed the car onto an abandoned airfield and watched at some distance as he entered the jumbo jet just as dawn’s first light poked over the horizon. The car that had taken Sherlock pulled up beside me and rolled down their window. I obediently followed suit, recognizing the man as the one whom had taken Sherlock away. “Are you Sherlock’s partner?”

“Kim Doyle,” I nodded. The man turned to say something into the car before nodding over at me, “Very well, Miss Doyle. Follow us.” Driving up closer the man escorted me over, surprisingly coming to my aide when the suspiciously healthy-looking Agent Jones spotted me and snarled a furious, “ _You_.”

“Miss Doyle is the partner of Mister Holmes and will therefore be treated with the utmost respect,” the man cut in. I gave a brief smile of thanks, “You should know, it’s very likely that Irene Adler will be here before long.”  
“We will take appropriate precautions,” the man nodded me up the stairway before beginning a soft-toned conversation into his earwig.

The jet was dark and more than a little eerie as I made my way in. The seats were full of corpses, and stood in the isle, Mycroft and Sherlock had stopped seemingly mid-word at my arrival. “I was unaware that my brother’s every move was of your concern, Miss Doyle,” Mycroft greeted sourly. I glanced to Sherlock, who held his brother’s gaze but beckoned me over, and quickly joined him at his side. “I asked her here, _Mycroft_. I need a partner who can work with me and when John is busy that role falls to Kim.” Sighing out his tension Sherlock looked around again, “How’s the plane going to fly—of course, unmanned aircraft. Hardly new.”

“It doesn’t fly. It will _never_ fly. This entire project is canceled. The terrorist cells have been informed that we know about the bomb. We can’t fool them now.” I felt myself swallow thickly at that—Adler’s text message. Still ignoring me, Mycroft continued, “We’ve lost everything. One fragment of one email, and months and years of planning—finished.”

Sherlock gave a scoff of comprehension, “Your MoD man.”  
“That’s all it takes,” Mycroft said resignedly, “One lonely, naive man desperate to show off, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special.” Sherlock gave a conceding half-shrug, “You should screen your defense people more carefully.” When Mycroft replied it was full of bitter frustration and ended with a stomped foot, “I’m not talking about our MoD man, Sherlock, I’m talking about _you_.”

“You _can’t_ blame him for this,” I cut in angrily, pushing my way between the two and making both of them look at me. Now that I’d jumped in I refused to allow myself to back down. “I’ve been suspicious of her from the start and I should have listened to my gut instinct and done something about it. More to the point, Adler’s a dominant woman. Dominant women don’t like competition, even _nonexistent_ competition. If I weren’t in the room she wouldn’t have been nearly half as determined to get what she wanted.”

“It’s not your fault, Kim,” Sherlock pulled me back by the wrist, not looking at me but not letting go either, “You told me from the beginning: She controls people for a living.”  
“In the end, are you really so _obvious_ ,” Mycroft asked his brother sourly, “Because this was _textbook_.” Sherlock’s grip tightened, and I saw him swallow as the former continued, “The promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption. Then give him a puzzle, and watch him _dance_.”

“Don’t be _absurd_ ,” Sherlock growled. Mycroft echoed the word with a hollow laugh. “How quickly did you decipher that email for her; was it the full minute or were you were you really _eager_ to impress?” Glancing at me with an unreadable expression Sherlock looked like he wanted to say something, but before he could he saw something over my shoulder and paled.

“I think it was less than five seconds,” Irene Adler announced calmly. When I turned to look I noticed she was in her full regalia; expensive, designer dress, hair done up and makeup on. I felt a pang of sympathy for the guards below and hoped at least that that one who’d stood up for me was okay. “Drug them all that silently, did you,” I snarled in greeting. She didn’t even blink at me, “Mister Holmes, I think we need to talk.”  
“So do I,” Sherlock began as she walked closer, “There are a number of aspects I’m still not quite clear on.”

“Not you, Junior, you’re done now,” brushing past she not-so-subtly shoved me aside: Sherlock shot out his arm and stabled me quickly around the waist. Ignoring us both Adler seemed honed in on Mycroft, pulling her phone out and unlocking it quickly, “There’s more. Loads more. On this phone I’ve got secrets and pictures and scandals that could topple your whole world. You have no idea how much havoc I can cause and exactly one way to stop me. Unless you want to tell your _masters_ that your biggest security leak is your own little brother?”


	27. Love

26 – Love

 

“You’re awfully quiet,” Sherlock observed, staring out the windshield as we tailed Mycroft’s car off to some unknown destination. It wasn’t that I didn’t hear him—the comment merely had registered on a level that didn’t require immediate response. “Kim?”

I shook my head to clear it, sparing him a meek glance, “Sorry. Lost in thought.” His responding once-over was almost wary before he settled his attention on the blurring scenery out the window, “What of?”

“Her password, first of all. I didn’t get that great a look, but I don’t think it’s a number. It looked like it ended in _er_.” If he had an opinion on that he wasn’t sharing. “Anything else in particular?”

“Why did you bring me into this?” I hadn’t meant to ask it, but when his head snapped back towards me I knew I couldn’t take it back. “Before, with her being your client. Why have me play the girlfriend? You could have handled this without me ever even knowing about it.”

“Is that what you prefer? Being kept in the dark? When you first got involved I told you we couldn’t hold back to keep you safe; I’ve since learned you can not only hold your own but have on more than one occasion been the very reason a case has been solved.”

“Thank you,” I muttered, feeling my face flush. Sherlock was not a man of many compliments, and to ignore one given would be a very poor choice indeed. Still keeping my eyes trained on the road I saw him purse his lips and sigh through his nose in the edge of my vision. “She throws me off. I’m not used to dealing with someone so forward directed solely at me. With you there I could ground myself against that.”

“Balancing forces,” I nodded, “clever.” When he didn’t reply I glanced at him again, surprised to find that unreadable expression on his face once more. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he said almost automatically, turning back to his window. “Initial motives aside, she is quite keen on you. She’s pretty, and she’s got one hell of a brain on her, too.”  
Sherlock swiveled his head slowly, frown evident by his tone, “You think I fancy Irene Adler?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted honestly, “I know she fancies you, and I know there’s potential for it to work.” To my surprise he gave a chuckling hum, “No, she and I are far too much alike. It would be like dating a sister. Or a female Mycroft.” We shared a shudder at that particular mental image, though I couldn’t help my grin as I followed the car into the turn lane. “Given it that much thought, have you?”

“Hardly a difficult deduction,” he seemed far more at ease with himself, I was pleased to note. “Right, forgot who I’m talking to. Is there anything you _don’t_ think about?”  
“Why the Earth goes around the Sun?” Sherlock joked. I gave an honest laugh at that, pleased that he joined in—John and Lestrade had pegged him for a solid week about that little incident, after which it quickly evolved into something of an inside joke.

Following the turn into a grand, gravel driveway, I quickly realized we were at Holmes Manor. “Should I wait in the car,” I asked hesitantly. “Do you _want_ to wait in the car?”  
“Not really.”

“Then by all means, come in.” Sherlock waited until I’d killed the engine before continuing, “I should warn you, there may be things said that you will not like to hear.”  
“I’ll try and bottle up my stupidity, then.” Sharing a grin a moment I gently nudged his arm, “C’mon, let’s go.”

Holmes Manor was as large and grandeur as I expected; full of wood paneling and portraits and suits of armor. The family crest hung in plain sight at least once in every room that I’d seen as Mycroft led the way to a spacious drawing room, wherein someone had already started a fire in the hearth.

Adler and Mycroft sat on either side of the long table by the window, but Sherlock ignored them, dropping into a stiff-backed leather armchair facing the fireplace. I followed his lead and dropped rather childishly to the floor beside him, leaning against the ornately carved arm facing away from the others. I heard Sherlock give a light snort of amusement at my antics and pointedly elbowed him gently in the leg as I fished out my mobile.

_Wrapping up case with Sher. ETA Unknown._  
John’s reply was as punctual as always; **Good to know. Should I hail a cab?**  
 _Nah, not much legwork in this one. Say hi to Greg for me?_  
 **Will do. Be safe. And if Sherlock does anything stupid feel free to clock him on the ear or something.**  
 _Har. I think I’m more likely to do something stupid in this case than he is._

I’d just sent the reply and tucked away my phone when Mycroft spoke up again, catching my attention. “We have people who can get into this.”  
“I tested that theory for you,” Adler replied easily, “I let Sherlock Holmes try it for five months. Sherlock, dear, tell him what you found when you x-rayed my camera phone?”

He’d _x-rayed_ it? Well, that was news to me. Staring into the fire unblinkingly, the sleuth’s reply was all but mechanical. “There are four additional units wired inside the casing, I suspect containing acid or a small amount of explosive. Any attempt to open the case will burn the hard drive.”

“ _Explosive_ ,” she repeated coyly, “It’s more me.”  
“Some data is always recoverable,” Mycroft pointed out. “You _could_ take that risk.”  
“You have a passcode to open it; I deeply regret to say we have people who can extract it from you.” Sherlock silently rolled his eyes at his brother’s stupidity, not even waiting for her to cue him in, “There will be two passcodes, one to open it, one to burn the drive. Even under duress you’d have no way of knowing which one she’s given you and there would be no point of a second attempt.”

“He’s good, isn’t he?” Adler all but purred, “I should have him on a leash. In fact I might.” Sherlock shifted awkwardly at that, so I leaned my head onto his knee as subtly and soothingly as I could. I heard him give a thankful exhale and smiled softly.

“We destroy this, then,” Mycroft declared, bringing the conversation back, “ _no one_ has the information.”  
“Fine,” she conceded, “good idea…Unless there are lives of British citizens depending on the information you’re about to burn.”  
“ _Are_ there?”

“Telling you would be playing fair. I’m not playing anymore.” There was a rustle as she paused, pulling out an envelope to slide across the table, “A list of my requests, and some ideas about my protection once they’re granted. I’d say it wouldn’t blow much of a hole in the wealth of the nation but then I’d be lying. I’d imagine you’ll want to sleep on it?”

“Thank you, yes,” Mycroft sounded more than a little floored. Adler’s response was immediate, “Too bad.” Behind me, I heard Sherlock give a single, short scoff of amusement.  
“Off you pop and talk to people,” She continued. Mycroft sighed heavily, sitting back in his chair, “You’ve been very thorough. I wish our lot were half as good as you.”  
“Oh, I can’t take all the credit; I had a bit of help. Ah—Jim Moriarty sends his love.”

Whatever was said next I didn’t hear over the sudden rush of tenseness that took over my body. My hand snapped to my stomach, tracing the scar from surgery through my shirt, and I closed my eyes to will away the feel of the blade piercing through and sliding out again. This time it was Sherlock who was the grounding force; his grip settled soothingly onto my shoulder and squeezed once, barely breathing out a, “it’s alright, Kim.”

I forced my eyes open again, staring into the fire, and moved my hand atop his, “Thanks, Sher,” I breathed just as quietly. He froze a moment before his hand withdrew, and there was a victorious edge to his voice when he spoke to the others, “No.”

“…Sorry?” Adler seemed to have caught it, too, but was determined to keep her façade. When I looked up at the sleuth he’d schooled his face into a mask of simplicity, “I said _no_ ,” before standing abruptly, “ _Very_ , very close, but no. You got carried away. The game was too elaborate. You were enjoying yourself too much.”

“No such thing as too much,” she countered. In full-on deduction mode, Sherlock barely missed a beat, “Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine; craving the distraction of the game, I sympathize entirely, but _sentiment_?” His tone took on a hateful edge, “Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the _losing_ side.”

“Sentiment?!” She echoed, her gaze flickering towards me, “What are you talking about?”  
“You.”

Her eyes widened, and for half a second she was rendered speechless before attempting to cover up with shock, “Oh, dear god, look at the poor man. You don’t actually think I was interested in you? Why? Because you’re the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?”

“No,” Sherlock countered simply before leaning down to murmur something in her ear. I found myself watching her face closely as her mask slipped, showing pain and panic before freezing into something like disbelief. Unmoved the sleuth grabbed the camera phone off the table behind her and continued as though nothing had happened, “I imagine John Watson thinks love is a mystery to me but the chemistry is incredibly simple and _very_ distracting.” His gaze flickered to mine at that, as he rather pointedly walked away from his brother. I knew that this was what he meant about things I didn’t want to hear and met the look evenly and emotionlessly. 

With only a break to breathe he turned back around to address Adler, “When we first met you told me that a disguise is always a self-portrait; how true of you. The combination to your safe? Your measurements. But _this_ , this is _far_ more intimate; _this_ , is your _heart_ , and you should _never_ let it rule your head.” Slowly, almost venomously, he punched in the password, and even as he spoke I realized what it was—I’d said it myself countless times since meeting the man. _SHER_.  
“You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you’ve worked for. But you just couldn’t resist it, could you? I’ve always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage. Thank you for the final proof.” Before he could punch the r in Adler grabbed his wrist. I nearly could sympathize with the pain the woman’s open face held as she vainly tried to stop him. “Everything I said…it’s not real. I was just playing the game.”

“I know,” Sherlock keyed the last letter in and held it up for her to see, “and this is just losing.” Waiting long enough for the screen to audibly change he handed the phone over to Mycroft, “There you are, brother. I hope the contents will make up for any inconvenience I may have caused you tonight.” Giving the dominatrix one final stare Sherlock turned and retrieved his coat, not replying to Mycroft’s nod of, “I’m certain they will.”

“If you’re feeling kind, lock her up. Otherwise I doubt she’ll last long without her _protection_.”  
“Are you expecting me to beg,” Adler demanded brokenly. “Yes,” Sherlock didn’t even have to think about it. He didn’t look at anyone, focused on smoothing out his scarf before wrapping it around his neck. She swallowed thickly, “ _Please_. You’re right—I won’t even last six months.”

He was still completely unmoved as he addressed the finally-humbled woman, “Sorry about dinner.” Then, glancing down at me, “Coming, Kim?”

“Right behind you,” I gave the pair a parting glance before stuffing my coat into the crook of my arm and following the detective out. Only once we’d gotten out into the frigid February dawn did I stop with a disbelieving snort of amusement. Several paces ahead Sherlock turned on his heel to frown at me, “What?”

“Nothing, just—today’s Valentine’s day. That’s the _third_ holiday we’ve greeted with a rather crazy event.” Resuming the short walk towards the car I managed to wait until we were at the doors before catching his gaze and asking, “Is _every_ holiday we spend together going to be like this?”

Glancing away he pretended to think on it, though I could see he was barely holding back a grin, “Probably not. We did have an uneventful Halloween, if you’ll recall.”

“Thank heavens for that,” I agreed, dropping unceremoniously into the driver’s seat, grinning when he followed suit, “I’m not sure I could’ve handled some demented creep setting up a fake werewolf—or worse, vampire.”


	28. Moving

27 – Moving

 

“Right, I think that’s the last of them,” I grinned tiredly, dropping the box atop the rest. It had taken quite a few months to make 221C livable, especially when Irene Adler’s case cropped up in the middle of everything, but considering I’d be living downstairs from my best friends it made the Christmas present all the more worth the work.

Sherlock was sat on the desk reading the day’s paper, completely unwilling to so much as lift a finger to help, the clot. “How long will it take to wire the rest of R9?”

“Well, I took the week off, so as long as nothing comes up it should only be a few days. I’d still like to monkey with her, see if I can’t maximize the facial scan to pick out potential clients.” He hummed and turned the page, “You should keep the controls up front as basic as possible. Doubtless Mrs. Hudson will be unwilling to carry on full conversations with a security system as you frequently do. Then again, you’re also willing to carry on conversations with the _toaster_.”

“Watch it, you, or I’ll set your alarm clock to play American boy band music,” I threatened jokingly, jabbing the sleuth in the side before grabbing the drill behind him. I _had_ asked him down to assemble the bedframe, but he’d apparently found something far more interesting in the day’s paper.

“Perish the thought,” he deadpanned. I stuck my tongue out at him immaturely and grinned when that earned me a deep chuckle. “You know, you _could_ help.”  
“Nonsense, you’re doing fine.”  
“It’ll go faster with another pair of hands.”

“I’m sure John will be more than happy to assist in the heavy lifting.” I stopped struggling with mounting the headboard onto the wall and fixed Sherlock with a stare, “John walked to work because I needed the car to bring all this stuff over. It’s the middle of April and it’s raining cats and dogs outside. When John gets home the only thing he’s going to want is a mug of tea and a sit in front of the telly.”

“That’s hardly my problem,” Setting aside the paper Sherlock instead picked up my tablet, face falling in disbelief, “You switched your lock screen image to _that_ photograph?!”  
“Like it?” I grinned cheekily, “I got R9 to enhance the quality so you don’t really look like a ghost anymore.”

“Why do you even _have_ a copy of the hat photograph,” he pouted petulantly. “Because _someone_ was being a berk and went off on a secret mission to the Middle East without me.” Dropping into a lean beside him when he didn’t reply I gently nudged the sleuth’s side, “I could have helped you.” Sherlock swallowed and didn’t meet my gaze, “Yes, but would you have?”

“I _did_ ,” I grinned at his confusion and grabbed the tablet, unlocking it and pulling up the lock screen settings before handing it back for him to change, “Once she got back to her hotel a rather charming boy named _Aiden Wilson_ at the front desk handed her a care package containing a new identity, a flight ticket, and keys to a rental car and new home in America. When Mycroft started sniffing around the camp after you’d left I rather ingeniously covered your tracks and cut his access to the CCTV feed. For all he knows, I dragged you off to see a botanist who happens to be an old friend of my mother’s give a very interesting lecture on the Venus fly trap.”

Looking back at Sherlock I noticed him staring at me with that same unreadable look again and couldn’t help but grin, “She’s not the only clever girl to find herself in too deep, Sher. When I hit rock bottom they gave me a second chance. Because of that I could offer her the same.” I gave the half-assembled bedframe a glance before sighing and tossing the drill to the floor. “C’mon. Let’s get upstairs. John’ll be back soon and I know you’re dying to finish your latest project with the microscope.”

Sure enough it wasn’t long at all before John’s hesitant footfalls sounded on the stairs. “Clearly you’ve got news,” Sherlock greeted distractedly, still glued to his microscope. “If it’s about the Leeds’ triple murder, it was the gardener. Nobody noticed the earring.”

I shared an amusedly puzzled glance with John at that, having absolutely no idea what the sleuth meant, before the doctor cleared his throat. “I, uh, no, it’s um. It’s about Irene Adler.”

Sherlock looked up and blinked, “Oh? Something’s happened, has she come back?”  
“No, she’s uh…” John faltered, turning enough that I could easily see what was under his arm—the dominatrix’s file. He must have been talking to Mycroft, then. “I just bumped into Mycroft downstairs; he said he had to take a call.” I caught Sherlock’s gaze as the doctor floundered, clearly attempting to pull off what he assumed was a lie. “Is she back in London?” Sherlock prompted, standing. “No. She’s, uh,” John repeated before taking a deep breath, “She’s in America.”

“America,” the sleuth repeated in well-played surprise. John nodded, “Got herself on a witness protection scheme, apparently. Dunno how she swung it, but, uh…well, you know.”  
“I know _what_ ,” Sherlock frowned suspiciously. Awkwardly John gave me an almost apologetic glance, “Well, you won’t be able to see her again.”  
“Why would I want to see her again?”  
“Didn’t say you did.”

All but rolling his eyes Sherlock returned to his microscope, nodding to the bag still under John’s arm, “Is that her file?”  
“Yes, I was just going to take it back to Mycroft. Do you…want to—”  
“No.” Staring into the instrument Sherlock waited until John was about to leave before holding out his hand, “Oh, but I will have the camera phone back.” Startled the doctor turned back, “…there’s nothing on it anymore, it’s been stripped.”

“I know but I…I’ll still have it.” John gave me another look. I ignored it, idly tapping on the locked screen of my tablet to appear busy. “Look, I’ve gotta give this back to Mycroft,” he tried. Glancing at Sherlock’s open hand again the doctor sighed through his nose and wordlessly handed the mobile over before retreating back downstairs.

Only once he was sure his flat mate was gone Sherlock sighed and picked up his own mobile, scrolling through something as he walked to the window. I shifted in my perch on his armchair to watch as he pulled the camera phone out of his trousers pocket. “I can send that to her, if you’d like.”

“No,” Sherlock seemed a million miles away before he cleared his throat and tossed the mobile at me. “She can come collect it once she gets her life in order.” Then, seeming to realize something, “did you really leave her in the hands of your half-brother?”

“Aiden always told me he wanted to see America,” I grinned, “He’s more loyal than a Labrador. If they don’t kill each other first, Irene Adler will be back on her feet in no time.”


	29. Familiar

28 – Familiar 

 

“Sherlock Holmes, stop threatening our landlady with your harpoon or I swear to god you’ll be spitting teeth,” I growled up the stairs. 221B went silent, and when I entered through the kitchen it was to discover a pouting Sherlock—harpoon angled down now, thankfully—and a startled John and Mrs. Hudson. “Since when can _you_ do _that_ ,” Sherlock demanded testily. I nodded towards the windows as I put away the shopping, waiting for the landlady to head out of the way before replying, “Shadows, and the stairwell echoes quite nicely once you learn where to stand. Stop taking out your smoking frustrations on deducing her flirting habits.”

Something clicked visibly in his mind, and I instantly could feel his observations hone in on me. John sighed his flat mate’s name in the typical warning, but I shook my head and ignored the sensation. He’d been irritable since deciding to go cold-turkey about smoking last week, and the fact that he was literally flying through his cases wasn’t helping his mood any. 

Pulling the bin over I made short work of last night’s take away, but when I’d turned around to start on the dishes it was to discover a sly-faced sleuth standing right in my space. “I’ll by you dinner,” he all but purred, pulling me closer with an arm around my waist to murmur in my ear, “Moonlit picnic with candlelight and champagne in the late spring…”

I blinked heavily, forcing myself to not fall for the act, and gently pushed him away with a hand to his chest, “Sher, love, let’s not have you put-off for the sake of a smoke, okay?”

Like the flip of a switch he was back to his pouting, insufferable self, stomping back into the sitting room, “You were _supposed_ to be my _scapegoat_!”  
“I’m emotional, not mental,” I rolled my eyes in deadpan retaliation before the sight of the room dawned on me. “Jesus, I’m gone for a few hours and chaos reigns. What, did you tear the whole bloody flat apart looking for them? I swear, if you broke R9…” I must have said more than I should have, however. Once more his gaze was narrowed onto me; calculating, intent. “You know where they are.”

“I know that John hid them, yes.” Turning slowly from my march towards R9’s command screen I met his gaze easily, determined not to back down. I could see him searching for something that might make me slip up—it was no small stroke to my ego that he groaned and petulantly flung himself into his armchair, giving up.

“What the _hell_ was that all about,” John, it seemed, was still mildly disturbed at the thing in the kitchen. “Oh, John, I envy you so much,” Sherlock said instead. I rolled my eyes and returned to the kitchen, already suspecting where this was headed. “…You _envy_ me?”

“Your mind. It’s so placid. Straight-forward. Barely used. Mine’s like an engine, racing, out of control. A rocket tearing itself into pieces trapped on the launch pad _I NEED A CASE_!”  
“YOU’VE JUST SOLVED ONE by— _harpooning_ a dead _pig_ , apparently.”

“Oh, now that I would have loved to see,” I interjected sarcastically before things escalated much farther. Sherlock gave a frustrated growl, flinging to sit properly in the chair and drumming his fingers on the rests as though on some sort of sugar high, “That was this morning! When’s the next one?”

“Nothing on the website?” John looked to me pleadingly. I sighed and handed Sherlock my tablet, though I knew it hadn’t gone off since he’d last looked—I’d set R9 to watch the blog and _Science of Deduction_ for any new posts or comments and anything within key filters on the major news sites, “just the one about Bluebell.”  
“Bluebell?”  
“The _rabbit_ , John!” Sherlock answered testily, tossing the tablet at him. John frowned at the site, “Oh.”

“Ah, but there’s more! Before Bluebell disappeared it turned luminous, _like a fairy_ , according to little Kirsty—” I decided I never wanted to see him make that face, ever again—“Then the next morning, Bluebell was gone! Hutch still locked, no sign of a forced entry—ah.” Once more something seemed to click, and all false cheeriness was gone in the blink of an eye.  
“What am I saying? This is brilliant. Kim, phone Lestrade. Tell him there’s an escaped rabbit.”

“I’m sorry, _what_?” I backpedaled through the last few seconds of his ramble, wondering when the mocking had turned serious. “It’s this or _Cluedo_ ,” Sherlock glared pointedly at John, who immediately set the tablet aside with eager protest, “No, we are _never_ playing that again!”

Still more than a little distracted, Sherlock frowned, “Why not?”  
“Because it’s not actually possible for the victim to have done it, Sherlock, that’s why.”  
“It’s the only possible solution!”  
“It’s not in the rules!”  
“Well then the rules are wrong!”

The sudden, simultaneous chime of R9’s ‘doorbell’ alert brought the argument to an abrupt silence. The tension shifted, bleeding into excitement when silence followed. “Single ring,” John pointed out. “Maximum pressure under the last half-second,” Sherlock agreed. The three of us shared a glance, and I couldn’t help but mirror their grins as we all breathed the same conclusion, “ _Client_!” 

Snatching back my tablet I quickly accessed the facial recognition, only to drop the thing when I saw who it was. “Oh my god,” I heard myself say in disbelief. John sounded concerned, “…Kim?”

“Oh my,” I could only repeat before racing down the stairs. “R9, unlock front door,” I commanded hastily, throwing the thing open to stare the man down. “…Henry?”  
Pale already with whatever was on his mind, his eyes widened once he recognized me, “Annie?” Before I knew it I was hugging him, laughing in pure incredulity into the crook of his neck. “Wh-what are you doing here,” Henry asked once I’d pulled away, “I thought this was that detective’s house?”  
“I live downstairs. C’mon in, I’ll introduce you.”

“Yes, Kim, please do,” Sherlock insisted frigidly from the landing. He stared Henry down, saying nothing further until I’d closed the door. “R9, set full system lock.”  
“Full system lock activated,” R9 confirmed after the deadbolt had clicked into place. Sparing Henry a grin I bounded up the stairs to stand beside Sherlock, “Henry, may I introduce the absolutely _brilliant_ , world’s first and only Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes. Sher, this is Henry Knight—my god-brother.”


	30. [Basket] Case

29 – (Basket) Case

 

“So you’re from Grimpen village,” John prodded in pleasant surprise from his seat at the table. Pouring the coffee I gave an affirmative hum, “Born and raised. Until I took a shine to computers, anyway, and the parents sent me off to a boarding school here in London. My mum worked with Henry’s at the bakery; they grew up together—so did we, once Henry and I came along.” I gave said god-brother a rather pointed ruffle of his hair as I passed, handing Sherlock his mug before perching on his armrest. 

Awkwardly Henry flicked his gaze between the three of us as he attempted to flatten his hair again. “So, Henry,” Sherlock began, fingers steepled as he regarded the client, “What can we do for you?”

“Right. I, um…” It was obvious he was trying very hard not to stare at me. Sherlock sighed in more than a little annoyance, “This is not a social call, Mister Knight, and even if it were I assure you whatever you have to say, Kim is the _least_ likely to judge you for it.”

I listened with no small amount of concern as Henry failed to explain his situation—something about Baskerville and a telly programme that he’d recently been a part of. Eventually he managed enough to get John to put the recorded programme on. Still antsy, Sherlock’s gaze constantly flitted to Henry, who fiddled with his jacket with his eyes glued to the screen.

He managed to sit through all of five minutes of the thing before clicking the remote off and turning squarely back to the client, “What did you see?” Henry looked startled, “Oh, I was just about to say…”

“Yes, in a TV interview; I prefer to do my own editing.”  
“Oh. Yes…sorry, yes of course.” Awkwardly he pulled out a napkin and dabbed at his nose, clearly stalling for time. “In your own time,” John reassured. “But quite quickly,” Sherlock countered impatiently.

“Do you know Dartmoor, Mister Holmes?” Henry began hesitantly. Sherlock blinked, “No.”  
“It’s an amazing place, it’s like nowhere else; it’s sort of… _bleak_. But beautiful.” In what I recalled of the place, I would have left it simply at _bleak_. Sherlock hummed, “Not interested. Moving on.” It was really rather obvious that Henry had come here with a script at the ready—he was rapidly revising that script at every curveball Sherlock threw, and I knew it was deliberate on the detective’s part.

Henry fiddled with his napkin, “We used to go for walks after my mum died—do you remember, A—Kim?”  
“Yes,” I was thankful, at least, that he was trying to call me _Kim_ instead of _Annie_. “Every evening, we’d go out onto the Moor. Even after you’d left—my dad and me.”  
“Yes, good, skipping to the night your dad was violently killed,” Sherlock cut in again, “Where did that happen?” I could see John giving the sleuth a warning side-eye and did my best not to snort in amusement.

There was a beat of silence before Henry continued, “There’s a place. It’s sort of a local landmark called _Dewer’s Hollow_.”  
“The Devil’s Mouth,” I asked, amusement gone. When he nodded at me I felt something heavy settle in my stomach, “But it’s practically off-limits.” Sherlock frowned at me, “Why’s that?”

“Most people say it’s haunted,” I explained, knowing Henry wouldn’t be able to, “Mum used to swear up and down that the Hollow was a gateway to Hell. Pick a religion, if they live in Grimpen they’ve got a ghost story about it.” Sherlock scoffed, “ _So_?”

“Did you see the devil that night,” John prodded much more gently. Henry looked, impossibly, paler than when I’d answered the door as he turned to the doctor and nodded, managing a faint _yes_. “It was huge,” he described after he’d found his voice again, beginning to shake, “coal…black fur, with…red…eyes…It got him. Tore at him, tore him apart. I can’t remember anything else, they found me the next morning just wandering on the moor. My dad’s body was never found.”

Tale, apparently, finished, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply in an attempt to calm himself. John, Sherlock and I exchanged a glance. “Red eyes, coal black fur, enormous…” John summarized, “Dog? Wolf?”

“Or a genetic experiment,” Sherlock whispered conspiratorially. I bit my lips to keep from grinning, though Henry’s startled glare wasn’t exactly helping things. He looked far too much like the kid I remembered, glaring at me like that—after I’d climbed atop roofs and stolen chocolates and let loose the chickens and pelted the teachers with water balloons.  
“Are you laughing at me, Mister Holmes?”

“Why, are you joking?” Sherlock fired back easily. Henry didn’t break his glare, “My dad was always going on about the things they were doing at Baskerville. About the type of monsters they were breeding there. People used to laugh at him.” That I _definitely_ remembered. “At least the TV people took me seriously.”  
“And I assume it did _wonders_ for Devon tourism.”

“Put Grimpen back on the map, did you?” I couldn’t help but add. John gave me a _look_ as Henry stared at me, aghast. “Henry,” John coaxed, “Whatever did happen to your father, it was _twenty_ years ago. Why come to us now?”

“I’m not sure you can help me, Mister Holmes, since you and Kim find this all so _funny_.” Nonplussed, Sherlock answered John’s question even as the client stood ready to huff off, “Because of what happened last night.” Frozen at that, Henry turned back to regard us slowly, “H-how did you know?”

“I didn’t know, I _noticed_ ,” Sherlock corrected. I settled myself more fully onto the armrest, eager to see how well I’d done in my own _observations_ of the man. Ignoring me, the sleuth rattled off monotonously, “You came up from Devon on the first available train this morning. You had a disappointing breakfast and a cup of black coffee. The girl in the seat across the aisle fancied you. Although you were initially keen, you’ve now changed your mind, possibly because she wasn’t your type, more likely because you were reunited with a childhood crush. You are, however, extremely anxious to have your first cigarette of the day. Sit down, Mr. Knight. And do _please_ smoke, I’d be _delighted_.”

“Sher,” I groaned at that last. He once again ignored me. More baffled than elsewise, Henry hesitantly made his way back to the armchair and pulled out a box of cigarettes, “How on _earth_ did you notice all that?”  
“It’s not important,” John tried. Sherlock, however, seemed more keen than usual to show off. “Punched-out holes where your ticket’s been checked.”  
“Not now, Sherlock,” John interrupted scoldingly. Sherlock rounded a full-on pout at him, “Oh, please? I’ve been cooped up in here for ages.”  
“You’re just showing off.”  
“Of course. I am a show-off. That’s what we _do_.”

Pleadingly John looked to me, but I shrugged and gave a vague gesture towards Henry, “The client _did_ ask.” More than a little pleased, Sherlock continued as though nothing had happened, “Train napkin you used to mop up the spilled coffee; strength of the stain shows that you didn’t take milk. There are traces of ketchup on it and round your lips and on your sleeve. Cooked breakfast. Or the nearest thing those trains can manage, probably a sandwich.”

“H-How did you know it was _disappointing_?” Henry interrupted with a squeak of astonishment. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, “Is there any other type of breakfast on a train? The girl, female handwriting’s quite distinctive, wrote her phone number down on the napkin. I can tell from the angle she wrote it at that she was sat across from you on the other side of the aisle. Later, after she’d got off, I imagine, you used the napkin to mop up your spilled coffee, accidentally smudging the numbers. You’ve been over the last four digits yourself with another pen so you wanted to keep the number. Just now, though, you used the napkin to blow your nose. Maybe you’re not that into her after all. Maybe you were simply hopeful that Kim here was available. Then there’s the nicotine stains on your fingers—your _shaking_ fingers. I know the signs. No chance to smoke one on the train, no time to roll one before you got a cab here. It’s just after 9:15, you’re desperate. The first train from Exeter to London leaves at 5:46 AM. You got the first one possible, so something important must have happened last night. Am I wrong?”

Throughout the whole deduction Henry had barely breathed, looking at Sherlock as though he’d grown a second head. “No,” he managed, “you’re right. You’re…completely…exactly right. Bloody hell, I heard you were quick, but—”

“It’s my job,” Sherlock interrupted before sitting forward, “Now _shut up_ and _smoke_.” Rolling my eyes I took that as my exit cue, retreating to the kitchen to get something to drink. I hadn’t missed Sherlock’s less-than-subtle points about _childhood crush_ and wasn’t about to let him get away with them, either. From my relatively smoke-free vantage point I cradled my mug to my chest, watching with no small amount of amusement as John attempted to further the questioning and Sherlock focused solely on crowding into Henry’s space, taking deep inhales of the second-hand smoke.

It was definitely worth noting that Henry had a therapist—one who, apparently, was either new to Grimpen or didn’t believe the stories about the Hollow. “She’s the reason I returned to Dartmoor,” Henry explained faintly, “She thinks I have to face my demons.”

“And what happened when you went back to Dewer’s Hollow last night, Henry,” Sherlock prompted, seemingly once more himself. “You went there under the advice of your therapist and now you’re consulting a detective. What did you _see_ that changed everything?”

Henry took another deep drag from his cigarette, “Strange place, the Hollow. Makes you feel so _cold_ inside, so afraid.” I could practically _hear_ Sherlock’s responding eye roll, “Yes, if I wanted poetry, I’d read John’s emails to his girlfriends, much funnier. What did you _see_?” I could completely sympathize with John’s suffering sigh at that. “Footprints,” Henry breathed in reply, “On the _exact_ spot where I saw my father torn apart.” Silently groaning Sherlock slumped back into his chair, all but done with Henry. “A man’s or a woman’s?” John prompted.

“Neither,” Henry managed. “They were—”  
“Is that it?” Sherlock interrupted, “Nothing else? Footprints? Is that all?”  
“Yes, but they were—”

“Nope, sorry Dr. Mortimer wins, childhood trauma masked by an invented memory. Boring! Goodbye, Mr. Knight. Thank you for smoking.”

“B-but what about the footprints?” Henry insisted. Sherlock gave a dismissing shrug, “Oh, well, they’re probably paw prints, could be anything, therefore nothing.” Then, standing with a shooing motion, “Off to Devon with you. Have a cream tea on me. R9, unlock the front door and do _please_ make sure it doesn’t hit Mr. Knight on the way out.”

Sherlock was in the doorway to the kitchen making a beeline for his bedroom when Henry turned around with an aghast, “Mister Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!”


	31. What

30 – What

 

Sherlock had frozen, staring over my right shoulder without really seeing anything. After a beat he turned slowly on his heel, “Say that again?”  
“I found footprints,” Henry began, “they were—”  
“No, no, your exact words. Repeat your _exact_ words from a moment ago, _exactly_ as you said them.”

Hesitantly Henry obliged, and I could hear Sherlock’s grin in his next words. “I’ll take the case.”

Over his shoulder, John looked at me for a clue, as though expecting it to be written on my forehead or something. “Sorry, _what_?”  
“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, it’s very promising,” Sherlock ignored his flat mate, pacing towards the sofa in thought. “Hang on, a minute ago footprints were boring. Now they’re very promising?!”

“It’s got nothing to do with footprints. As ever, John, you weren’t listening. Baskerville, ever heard of it?”  
“Vaguely,” John shrugged, “It’s very hush-hush.”

“Military base,” I explained, moving to lean in the doorway, “It’s got more to do with science than war, though, I can tell you that much. And a system any hacker would _kill_ to sink their teeth into.”  
“Sounds like a good place to start,” Sherlock agreed. Henry looked between us, pleasantly surprised, “Ah, you’ll come down, then?”

“No, I can’t leave London at the moment, far too busy. But don’t worry, I’m putting my best man onto it.” Sherlock stepped over the fallen trail of papers to clap his flat mate on the shoulder, “I can always rely on John to send me all the relevant data, as he never understands a word of it himself.”  
“What are you talking about, you’re busy? You don’t have a case! A minute ago you were complaining—”

“ _Bluebell_ , John! I’ve got _Bluebell_. The case of the vanishing glow-in-the-dark rabbit. NATO’s in uproar.”  
“Oh, sorry. You’re not coming, then?” Henry frowned, thoroughly confused. Sherlock put on his most exaggerated, mocking, apologetic frown and shook his head slowly. John sighed, “Okay…Okay.” Surging to his feet he crossed to the mantelpiece, pulling Sherlock’s secret supply of cigarettes out from inside the skull and tossing them to the sleuth. Sherlock just as quickly tossed them onto the couch over his shoulder, grinning impishly, “I don’t need those any more, I’m going to Dartmoor.”

“S-so you _are_ coming?” Taking pity on my god-brother I sighed and set aside my mug, “Henry, why don’t you head home. We’ll get things sorted out here and get back to you when we can?”  
“Twenty year-old disappearance? A monstrous hound? I wouldn’t miss this for the _world_!” Sherlock’s gleeful cackle followed the client down the stairs and out the door. Closing it heavily behind me I stared up at the smirking sleuth on the landing until he looked down at me in confusion, “…What?”

“ _Childhood crush_ ,” I repeated in deadpan, folding my arms across my chest, “Was that supposed to be payback for my comment about who fancied you?”  
“No,” Sherlock’s good mood seemed to have vanished as he slowly came downstairs, cornering me in the mudroom. “R9 to system lock,” he commanded softly, slipping one hand in his pocket as the other came to rest beside my head, taking the brunt of his weight, “That was for you racing down to greet my client first and for him nearly _snogging_ you on my doorstep.”

“I hadn’t seen him since I was eight, Sher. Snogging was the last thing on my mind, and it’ll stay that way as far as _anything_ from my childhood is concerned.” I didn’t particularly know why I felt the need to match his low tone—it wasn’t as if we were swapping the secrets of the universe. 

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose, “Well, it may have been the last thing on _your_ mind, but do try to remember you’re a woman and he is not.”  
“Are you implying I’m attractive?” Before I could get an answer John gave a rather pointed cough on the stairs. Sherlock straightened, and there was an unreadable edge to his smile, “Make sure you pack all your gear, _darling_. I’d hate for you to be in less than top form for your _homecoming_.”

John waited for the sleuth to disappear up the stairs before meeting me at my door and pointedly lowering his voice, “Okay, _what_ is up with you two? You’ve been half-flirting with each other ever since you moved in, which wouldn’t be a problem if it were actually getting anywhere. But I want an honest answer—and before you bite my head off, know I plan on asking him the same questions later. Are you leading him on?”

“Of course not,” I frowned, surprised. Content in that, John nodded, “Okay. Is _he_ leading _you_ on?”  
“Not really. You remember what I said? About fighting things tooth-and-nail? I think we’re just sort of feeling our way through this. Whatever _this_ is. I don’t know what to call it or if it will go anywhere. We haven’t even talked about it or anything. I just know that it feels _natural_ , and he doesn’t seem to object to it.”

“I think he instigates it more than you do,” John agreed before sighing, “Just promise me I won’t walk in on you two. He’s my best mate and you’re practically my sister, so I’d really rather not ever have to deal with that. _Ever_.”

“I don’t think _anyone_ wants to deal with that ever. Though if it does end up being that serious, in all honesty I have a feeling you’d know before I would.”


	32. Grimpen Village

31 – Grimpen Village 

“You’re sure you’ll be alright on your own,” I pushed gently, pulling Mrs. Hudson out of the way as John came down with Sherlock’s second suitcase early the next morning. Why on earth _he_ felt the need to pack _two_ , I had no idea. Mrs. Hudson just smiled conspiratorially, “Oh, you go and have fun with our boys. Lord knows they’ll need a hand on this one.”

Reassured she’d be fine in R9’s care, I followed John out, bid her farewell, and ducked into the passenger’s seat of my car. It felt weird to _not_ be driving, but it was a fairly short trip to Paddington Station, and Sherlock had made quite a fuss about renting something ‘much more practical’.

The sun had fully risen by the time the off-road, all-but-armored jeep pulled into the Cross Keys car park. I’d fallen asleep at some point between the station and our arrival, and was more than a little surprised to find Sherlock’s coat draped over me when I woke. “Good morning,” Sherlock half-teased in greeting over his shoulder as he unbuckled his seat belt.

I yawned through my response in kind, passing the coat over as the doctor joined us on the driver’s side of the jeep. “Remember, Kim, we’re counting on you for leads here. You know the layout and the mindset; use that to your full advantage.”

“Yessir,” I grinned and stuck my hands in the pockets of my own coat, leading the way into the quaint inn-and-café. Everything was just as I remembered it; the crumbling stonework, the soft air of familiarity. The only difference was the number of tourists in what I recalled as still being the off-season. Grimpen wasn’t ever a tourist trap, though the more creative nature lovers were known to flock in mid-summer.

Sherlock fell into step with me easily enough, leaving John to bring up the rear. Before I could get very far, however, I found myself scooped into the first welcoming hug of what would probably be many. Vincent Henson was batty, half-blind, and perhaps the most friendly old man I could recall of the whole village. ‘Uncle’ Vinnie had settled down in Grimpen when he returned from the Second World War, and had since become something of a communal family member to the village residents. “Ah, my little Annie, the stars told me you would be coming home!” I pulled back as soon as was polite to do so, linking my arm around Sherlock’s, “Good to see you Uncle.”

“Now, who is this charming young strap?” Taking the offered hand Sherlock managed a seemingly-honest grin, “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Ah, yes, and you _do_ take good care of her, don’t you.”

“Best I can, sir.”

“Naturally you would, lad. Naturally you would. Now, tell me, Kimberly. What are you doing on this side of the village?”

“We were just going to go check in, actually,” John intervened. Vinnie’s eyes widened and he pulled himself a little straighter, “Oh ho, ho! A captain! A _doctor_ and a captain! Why, I haven’t seen a captain since before I lost my good eye. I’d salute you, but I’m afraid I just realized I’ve left a strudel in the oven. Annie, lovely Kimberly Annie, stop by the post office, your brother has left you something. Cheerio!”

And just like that he was gone. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding and gave the boys a meek grin, “Well, you’ve passed inspection with flying colors from the town nut case. I think it’s safe to say the villagers will love you.”

“How did—”

“Uncle Vinnie has convinced himself he’s a Seer and can talk to the stars. While some of it is completely off the wall, the rest ends up being true with deadly accuracy. We should see what Aiden’s left at the post office. Uncle wouldn’t have brought it up if it weren’t important.”

“He’s not your real uncle,” Sherlock frowned, once more falling into step with me. John followed suit at my other side. “Thank heavens for that. No; he’s practically older than dirt and has been here forever. Everyone just calls him Uncle because he’s all but adopted the whole town.”

“He may be a good place to start asking questions,” John suggested. I raised a dubious eyebrow, “If _you_ want to try getting a straight enough answer, be my guest. Here we are,” Taking a sharp left I led the way into the post office, patiently waiting through what I knew would become a typical occurrence—great to see you’s, living in London now, these are my flat mates, etcetera.

“I was just talking to Uncle; he said Aiden left me something?”

“Oh, yeah, and I’d never have believed it meself if I weren’t there when it happened. Boy, your old man must be churnin’ in his grave.”

“You can’t be serious,” I frowned when April handed me a familiar ring of skeleton keys. “I know, we were all shocked as stone too!”

“We _are_ talking about the same Aiden, right? Papa’s boy, scrawny as hell, follows pretty much anyone around like a lost puppy?”

“What is it?” John asked. I finally managed to break my gaze from the keys, thanked April absently, and led the way out. “Kim?”

I turned back to them only once we’d hit the road again, “Aiden’s refused inheritance. He passed it all on to me.”

“…Which means what, exactly?” I grinned at the doctor’s wary glance at the keys, “It means we’re spending the night in _style_.”

Walking back to the jeep we passed by a group of tourists that had me rolling my eyes, “He would.”

“Problem?” Sherlock muttered. “That tour guide. Fletcher. He used to do _anything_ to get attention back when we were kids. Always made sure to have some sort of proof, too. He’s a safer bet than Vinnie, for getting information.” Watching in the Cross Keys’ window as the group disbursed, I turned to John, “There’s a pub just inside; if Fletcher’s setting up camp for his tours here that means the owners know something. They’re more likely to tell you than they are me.”

“Right,” mildly surprised that I’d taken charge John gave a glance to Sherlock before heading off inside. Fletcher had meandered to a table, talking lowly on his mobile. I turned to the sleuth, “You should know the last time I saw Fletcher I broke his arm.”

“Charming.” Sherlock scooped up someone’s abandoned glass of beer and handed it to me, slipping around behind me to slide his hands into the recently-vacated pockets.

“ _But_ ,” I continued, leaning into the faux-embrace, “He’ll be more willing to open up to your questions if I’m there—prove you’re not from the papers, at least. I never used to believe him when he’d find these sorts of things. Use that however you see fit.” We shared a brief smirk before he shifted out of the impromptu spooning and took the glass from me, free hand entwining with mine to lead me leisurely across the road towards Fletcher’s table.

“Mind if we join you?” Glancing between us, Fletcher gave an uncaring shrug before recognizing me. “My god; if it isn’t Terror Annie.” I gave him a sheepish grin, “Remember that, do you Fletch? I see you’re still as desperate for attention as ever.” He narrowed his eyes at me, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, it’s not true, is it? People haven’t actually _seen_ this hound thing, have they?” Sherlock jumped in. Fletcher gave him a wary once-over, “And who are you, then?”

“I’m her boyfriend,” Sherlock mimicked the look, “Who are you?”

“This is Fletcher. He’d come up with the stupidest ways to get noticed, back when we were kids.” Then, turning back to Fletcher, “I come back for the weekend to find you convincing the whole village and _tourists_ that there’s some mutant monster you’ve seen running around the moor?”

“If you’d stayed you would know how real it is, Annie.” Sherlock gave a frown at that, glancing between us before settling dubiously on Fletcher, “ _Have_ you seen it?”

Breaking the stare down Fletcher shrugged dismissively, “Maybe.”

“Got any proof?” Sherlock challenged. He was met with a level stare, “Why would I tell _you_ if I did?” When John walked over to join us Fletcher scowled, “’Scuse me.”

“I called Henry,” the doctor began. Sherlock cut across him, “Bet’s off, sorry John.”

“What?”

“Bet?!” Fletcher demanded. Sherlock glanced at his watch and muttered something about cover of darkness. I took the cue easily, “I bet John here fifty quid you couldn’t give undeniable proof you’d seen this _hound_.”

“Yeah, the guys in the pub said you could,” John added hesitantly, side-eying Sherlock. Grinning in pure disbelief at his ‘luck’ Fletcher scoffed at me, pulling out his mobile. “Well you’re gonna lose your money, mate. I’ve seen it. Only about a month ago, up at the Hollow. It was foggy, mind, couldn’t make much out.” The picture he showed was blurry from fog, pixelated from poor definition, and awkwardly lit from the flash. I exchanged a pointedly raised eyebrow with Sherlock. “Forgive me if I don’t believe the boy crying wolf,” I rolled my eyes, holding out a hand towards John. Fletcher swallowed, “That’s not all,” he insisted. “People don’t like going up there, you know. To the Hollow.”

“Yes, I’m very well versed in the paranoia surrounding the Devil’s Mouth, thanks. If that’s all you’ve got then I think we’re done here.” Glancing around at my sarcastic bite Fletcher licked his lips, lowering his voice. “…I had a mate once who worked for the MoD. One weekend we were meant to go fishing but he never showed up, well not ‘till late. When he did, he was white as a sheet. I can see him now. _I’ve seen things today, Fletcher_ , he said, _I ain’t never wanna see again. Terrible things_. He’d been sent to some secret army base—Baskerville, maybe. Or somewhere else. In the labs there, the _really secret_ labs, he said he’d seen… _terrible things_. Rats the size of dogs, he said. And dogs…” he paused to pull out a plaster molding of an enormous paw print, “…dogs the size of horses.” 

A pause fell heavy around our table, and John waited for Sherlock to get a decent look at the thing before cutting in with a rather pointed glance towards me, “We did say fifty?” Giving a dejected sigh I pulled out my wallet, leveling Fletcher with a dirty look as I tossed the fifty quid at John. “Ta,” the doctor nodded, draining the rest of his glass before standing and leading the way back towards the jeep.


	33. Quartermaster

32 – Quartermaster 

Pan Manor was located at the top of Grimpen village. Though it hadn’t been used for a handful of years, the estate was in good keep and the power clicked on with minimal fuss. After giving the boys a tour of the place I sent John back into the village to pick up a few things and pulled my suitcase full of electronics onto the dining room table.

“What are you doing,” Sherlock frowned, dropping into the seat across from me. I barely glanced up, unearthing the static-free boxes and my tool kit. “We are sitting in the back yard of Baskerville. If you’re going in there, you’re going to need a few new toys.” When I looked at him he was giving me a bemusedly raised eyebrow. I sighed, “To keep them from being suspicious I’ll be using my key, but I won’t be able to get in without a nudge. That’s where these come in.” Carefully opening the box in the middle I plucked one of the complete modified earwigs out and handed it over for him to examine, “It won’t be an exact fit, but thankfully your hair will hide it well enough. I’ll be able to hear everything you hear, and if I need to contact you it’s linked up to my headset. It will also broadcast at a frequency that will crack the walls enough to let me in.”

“Can this frequency be accessed by other parties?”

“It masquerades as a mobile’s frequency—any scanner that would pick up the noise would register it as a phone with ridiculously good service.”

“Neat,” Sherlock raised his eyebrows, impressed. I grinned, “I should hope so. I spent all night working on the bloody thing. Sacrificed my tablet and a really good pair of headphones, too.”

“Your _tablet_?!”

“Yeah—I kind of accidentally broke the screen when I dropped it yesterday, so I gutted it for parts. I kept the motherboard intact and once this is over I’ll customize a new one, but the rest can be used for all kinds of different things.”

“And the rest of this,” Sherlock nodded to the boxes, “why’d you bring all this nonsense?”

“Didn’t know what I’d need. Last-minute tazers or a perimeter of cameras…I figured it’s best to be prepared for any eventuality.” Pushing the other boxes aside I pulled over my laptop and dug out the modified card reader, “Now, then, you said something about an access card?”

John returned not long after that, dropping the bag of goodies onto the table beside my suitcase. “It’s ridiculous, how big this place is,” he complained, looking around at the high-arced walls and stonework. I gave a vaguely distracted hum of agreement, “You can imagine how quickly the novelty of hide-and-seek wore off. This place has been passed down through Aiden’s mum’s family. When she died it fell to our dad. By all rights it should be Aiden’s now, but apparently he’s decided to see the world before settling down.”

He gave an impressed hum and dropped into a chair, doling out the things he’d gotten. The torches would come in handy later for exploring the moor, and the pasta would be an easy heat-up for dinner. Lighter fluid, I had to explain, was under the _just in case_ category—“Well, if there _is_ some kind of mutant hound running about we’ll want to find a way to contain it, right?”—as did the sleeping bags and 72-hour camping candles.

“You’re pretty much set for an apocalypse, aren’t you,” John joked. I rolled my eyes and reached over him to dig through one of the boxes, pulling out a mostly-gutted older model phone to unscrew its antennae. At that point I was tinkering more to keep my hands busy as R9 worked through the borrowed access card, mapping its coding and building a code around it to be able to follow the card’s movements.

Sherlock had taken up the head of the table, chair pushed back to hook his crossed ankles on another seat and hands folded neatly over his chest. He’d studied the map of the area like that for a while, but had recessed into his mind not long before John had come in.

When the laptop beeped signaling R9’s completion of the program, the sleuth was up on his feet in an instant. “Did it work?”

“Looks like it,” I grinned, sliding the card out to hand over, “Congratulations, we now have access to Baskerville. Lemme set up shop and we should be ready to go.”

It took scant few minutes to _set up shop_ ; shoving aside the bits and bobs I’d pulled out both my laptops, plus Sherlock’s and John’s and set them in an arc around me. USB plugged into my larger laptop and key poised at the ready to follow R9’s card tracer, I made sure the others were all connected wirelessly, calling up the earwig program to one, scrambler chip tracker to another, and the CCTV to the last, which I would be using to keep an eye on Mycroft’s side of things, just in case.

“Alright, Quartermaster,” John grinned jokingly, “don’t forget to keep watch on yourself, too. This isn’t Baker Street, remember.”

“Relax, Double-oh-seven. R9’s on sonar mode. Once that door closes behind you I’ll know as soon as someone approaches.”

“Hang on,” Sherlock demanded, “How come _he_ gets to be James Bond?!”

“Because he’s the one with the gun and all the one-night-stands,” I deadpanned, ignoring said doctor’s indignant protest at that. “You’re the brains of this operation, Sher; if anyone you’re M.”


	34. Baskerville

33 – Baskerville 

Taking several calming breaths I slipped on the headset, watching as John’s and Sherlock’s scramblers neared the edge of the map. “You’re just at the edge of GPS now,” I said softly, “Can you hear me, Sher?”

“ _Yes, I can hear you,_ ” Sherlock’s quiet murmur came through clear as a bell even as they dropped off the visible map. I grinned, “John, if you can hear me, whistle.” When silence followed I nodded to myself, “Good to see I got the volume levels right.”

“ _Will you be blathering in my ear the whole time,_ ” Sherlock sighed in clear annoyance. “Only when I’ll need to,” I promised, “Just wanted to make sure everything worked before you got inside.”

“ _ID, please,_ ” an unfamiliar voice called. I obediently shut up, instead focusing on R9. The access card went through without hitch, and as soon as Baskerville’s system cleared it R9 began downloading a map of the entire base. “ _Mycroft’s name literally opens doors,_ ” John sighed in disbelief as the gate opened and they drove through. “ _I told you,_ ” Sherlock replied, “ _he practically is the British Government. I reckon we’ve got about twenty minutes before there’s a query, Kim. I don’t particularly care if it goes through and he finds out, but try not to let it escalate._ ”

“I will Rodger that,” I muttered distractedly, more than a little focused on the base’s layout. It was really rather stupid of them to have access of the ground plans at the front gate, but I supposed they had to keep watch over it somehow.

I listened in distracted amusement when John pulled rank on the corporal that had greeted them, but was quickly roped into the first hurdle as the commandeered access card slid through at the exterior door. A simple enough bypass that R9 managed without interference, but I knew it would get more challenging the further in he went and wasn’t planning on taking any chances.

The second door was slightly trickier, after they’d entered the lift, and it didn’t help that they were shortly thereafter introduced to Frankland. “He knew Henry’s dad,” I explained lowly as John asked about the lift, “Worked at Baskerville even when I was a kid. I never much liked him—he’d always give me an antsy feeling, whenever he was around.”

Sherlock said nothing, doubtlessly taking everything in raw to mull over later. In the background, John pegged the corporal for information, and beyond that I could make out the soft cries of some kind of monkey.

The next door was suddenly far more intense. “What _are_ you hiding,” I couldn’t help but mutter, forcing the system to allow the authorization before the query went through. With my access to the systems I managed to subdue the query to appear as though at the front door rather than the middle of the first basement level. Unfortunately, however, in order to fully focus on doing so I’d pulled the headset around my neck. When I righted it again John sounded mildly panicked, “ _Did we just break into a military base to investigate a RABBIT?!_ ”

“Sher, the query went through. I managed to subdue it, though, so Mycroft won’t know you’ve been into the labs. Stay sharp.” No sooner had I warned thus than did Sherlock receive a text. I heard him scoff, “Twenty three minutes, Mycroft’s getting slow.”

The return through the first lab and the lift following were more of a handful to slip past, and it was with no small amount of embarrassment I realized just how rusty I was at extracted hacking.

“The Hound is waiting.”

I’d been so wrapped up in what was happening over there that I hadn’t noticed R9’s sonar alert go off. I jumped a mile high and tore off the headset, spinning to stand facing the intruder. Uncle Vinnie’s gaze was miles off, the hand not holding his cane shaking as it reached towards me. “Uncle, what the hell—”

“He’s an old dog. He’s done this before. Trussed himself in sheep’s clothing but you mustn’t fear what you see before you. Watch your boys, Annie. The _Hound_ is ready.” Almost as though in a trance the old man turned, shuffling for the door. “Ready for _what_ , Uncle?”

“Ready, ready. The Stars say he is ready. Ready to feed. To hunt. To kill!” Laughing giddily to himself he walked off, waving the cane over his head and singing _ready, ready, the stars say he is ready_.

Heart pounding at the adrenaline rush I watched him go before dropping quickly in front of the arc of computers, slipping the headset back on just in time to hear an alarm cut off. “Sher, what happened?”

“ _Later,_ ” Sherlock breathed before continuing at a normal tone, “ _Thank you._ ”

“ _This is about Henry Knight, isn’t it?_ ” Frankland’s voice called out, “ _I_ thought _so! I knew he wanted help, but I didn’t realize he was going to contact Sherlock Holmes! Oh, don’t worry, I know who you_ really _are; I’m never off your website! Thought you’d be wearing the hat, though._ ”

“ _It wasn’t my hat._ ”

“ _I hardly recognized him without the hat!_ ”

“ _It_ wasn’t _my hat._ ”

I relaxed marginally at the sound of a car passing, glad they were at least out in the open. Chatty as ever, Frankland continued, “ _I love the blog, too, Doctor Watson. The, uh, the pink thing. And the aluminum crutch._ ”

“ _Ah, cheers,_ ” John replied politely. “ _You know Henry Knight,_ ” Sherlock interrupted. “ _Well, I knew his dad better. He had all sorts of mad theories about this place. Still, he was a good friend. Listen, I can’t really talk now. Here’s my, uh, cell number. If I could help, with Henry, give me a call._ ”

“ _I never did ask, Doctor Frankland; what is it you do here at Baskerville?_ ”

“ _Mister Holmes, I would_ love _to tell you. But then of course I’d have to kill you!_ ” It may have been Uncle’s sudden batty intrusion throwing me off but I couldn’t help but feel like Frankland sounded more serious than he should have. “ _That would be tremendously ambitious of you,_ ” Sherlock pointed out before diverging, “ _Tell me about Dr. Stapleton._ ”

“ _I never speak ill of a colleague._ ”

“ _But you’d speak well of one, which you’re clearly omitting to do._ ”

“ _I do seem to be, don’t I?_ ”

“ _I’ll be in touch,_ ” Sherlock promised cheerfully. After a beat of silence John asked about the rabbit before giving a scoff. “ _Oh, please, can we not do this, this time?_ ”

“ _Do what,_ ” Sherlock frowned, confused. “ _You being all mysterious with your…_ cheekbones _and you turning your coat collar up so you’ll look cool._ ” John sounded exasperated. I bit my lip to keep from chuckling when Sherlock’s confusion grew, “ _…I don’t do that._ ”

“ _Yeah, you do._ ”

The car was back on the road before Sherlock spoke again, “ _Why did you get off the headset, Kim?_ ”

“ _Is_ that _what happened?_ ” John asked in the background. I did my best to fill them in about Uncle Vinnie’s sudden, random appearance. “It was almost like he had to wait for me to be alone in order to say that.”

“ _Do you think he doesn’t trust us,_ ” Sherlock guessed. I shook my head, “No; he told me to _watch my boys_ , which means this is even worse. He doesn’t trust the village.”

“ _That pasta John got_ ,” Sherlock said after a beat, “ _Will it keep?_ ”

“Until tomorrow, yeah.”

“ _Good. John and I are going to drop by Henry’s, see if there’s anything else we can glean of this. Lock everything in the safest room there and go talk to Vinnie. He may have more information than he’s letting on._ ”


	35. Vincent

34 – Vincent 

Uncle Vinnie’s house was far more decrepit than I remembered it being. The windows were broken and boarded up, door slanted on its hinges. Smoke rose merrily from the chimney, and I could smell something sickly sweet pouring out. “Uncle?” I rapped my knuckles on the doorframe hesitantly before realizing that the door was unlocked.

The house was near pitch-black, the only light pouring from the open door and a slit in the boards on the far window. The sofa had been upturned, and my foot crunched something that may have been a broken vase. Something had gone foul in the air, the plants were all long past withering point, and there were a line of half-eaten strudels on the table in various stages of decomposition. 

Out of the shadows where the grand piano used to sit, Uncle grabbed me by the elbow. There was an edge to his glossy eyes that I hadn’t seen since the night my mother died. I didn’t understand it any more now than I did when I was ten. “Danger in the air, Annie, danger in the air. Overrun with tourists and lies and suspicion. They said it once before, and we know it’s true now. The Hound is ready.”

“Uncle, what’s happened to you,” I asked worriedly. He closed the door quickly and herded me back into the bedroom—which, I was marginally pleased to see, looked exactly as I remembered it. “You’re in grave danger, little Annie. The stars all point to pain and suffering. The Devil’s Mouth opens wide, spitting venom at anyone who tries to enter. People do not trust what they cannot explain, and those who know truth are painted untrustworthy. The Hound is waiting. He’s an old dog. He’s done this before. Trussed himself in sheep’s clothing but you mustn’t fear what you see before you. Watch your boys, Annie. Skirt the lips and watch his back tonight. The Hound is _ready_. Ready, ready. The Stars say he is ready. Ready to feed. To hunt. To kill!”

There was no laughter this time, only sheer terror. I watched as the man who survived war, the man who used only ever be batty in a quirky way rocked himself on his bed, repeating what had become his mantra. On its fourth repetition I bolted, not looking back and not stopping until I dropped at one of the tables outside the Cross Keys.

 

“I don’t know, John. He seemed pretty heavily drugged to me.” After calming down I’d called John to compare notes, but apparently Sherlock was rather stubbornly keeping his thoughts to himself. “ _People can go senile with old age, Kim,_ ” the doctor reminded gently. “ _With all the rumors and stories floating around he might just be paranoid._ ” I sighed a hesitant agreement and found I hated myself for it, waving the rather obnoxiously drunken American away as I began the trek back towards the Manor. “Anyway, you said there was a plan?”

“ _Yeah. It’s not one of his more elegant plans, but it’s the one he’s set on. We’ll be by soon to pick you up._ ” Wrinkling my nose as the American tried to rather rudely get me to hang up, I shoved him off and picked up my pace, “Please tell me you’re almost here. The whole village is overrun with stupid, drunk, handsy tourists.”

“ _We’re just getting in the car now, so…fifteen minutes?_ ”

“For god’s sake--” abruptly I pulled the phone away and spun on my heel towards the tourist, “What part of _I’m bloody taken_ doesn’t make sense to your pea-sized brain?! Touch me again and I swear to god I will punch you in the face with a _car_.” Sighing out my aggravation I placed the mobile back to my ear, “I’ll be upstairs trying to scrub the stench of wasted amateur out of my skin. Sherlock shouldn’t have a problem finding the spare key. Give the usual knock when you’re here?”

“ _Try not to get arrested before we do,_ ” I could hear the exasperated amusement in his tone, though, which set me a little bit on ease.


	36. Moment

35 – Moment 

If I was being completely honest with myself, I couldn’t wait to get back to London. Initially I’d thought I missed Grimpen, but the longer we lingered the more I came to realize it just wasn’t the same village any more. Even setting Uncle Vinnie’s startling 180 aside, the rather handsy ‘friend’ I made shortly thereafter was proof enough of that. The tourist seemed overconfidently convinced that he could ‘outperform’ Sherlock any day of the week, and that I was wasting my time hanging around such a ‘pasty-faced loser’. I’d refrained from pointing out exactly how wrong he was and got rewarded with several drunken attempts at a kiss.

I scowled into the murky bathtub and scrubbed harder at my elbow, willing the ghost of the too-tight grip to go away. I switched the sponge to my neck when the rank recollection of the American’s breath on my pulse returned. “Scrub much harder and it will appear you’re trying to hide something.”

“Jesus,” I jumped instinctively, startled at Sherlock’s sudden voice. “I told you to knock.”

“I did, but you apparently were too focused on removing your skin to hear.”

The pout came out unbidden as I turned around into a crouch, hiding behind the lip of the brass stand-alone tub to look up at Sherlock. He seemed vastly interested in my crescent moon necklace I’d set beside the sink, though considering it was a gift from him and John he was probably only doing so out of courtesy to my modesty. “My senses are always on overdrive after an adrenaline rush, and that creep wouldn’t leave me be.” He hummed, “Yes, and you threatened to punch him in the face with a car. Impossible, of course, but never the less one of your more _amusing_ threats.”

I sank further behind the lip to hide my mortified blush, “Heard that, then?”

“Half of England could have heard that. Remind me to use your anger more often. At close enough range you could make a man legally deaf with a set of lungs like that, if only temporarily.”

“Ugh, don’t talk about close contact, please,” I begged, turning back around to reach for the sponge. I only vaguely registered the rustle of his movement. “If I never see an American again it will be too soon.”

“Here,” within the blink of an eye he was crouched down behind my head, jacket gone and shirt sleeves rolled up as he gently pulled the sponge out of my hand. “Wh-what—”

“I’m overriding the sensory memories. Surely you trust me more than a tourist?”

“The only thing I _don’t_ trust you with is keeping the flat clean,” I eased back, confident the water kept my modesty, and forced myself pliant. “Where did he touch you?” His voice was warm and soft, just a hair above a whisper as he pulled my arm out of the tub. “You’re good at these things,” I found myself replying just as softly, “Make a deduction.”

His hand was firm and sure in mine, just as it had been when he’d first taken it this morning, and I heard him set the sponge on the tile floor before the other slowly made its way up to my well-scrubbed elbow. The skin there was raw and sensitive, and I had little doubt he’d caught onto my elevated pulse. Gently, his hand molded around the harsh grip from the tourist, contorting to cover what felt like blooming bruises perfectly from end to end.

“ _Relax_ ,” he whispered deeply as his nose drew through my still-bound hair and down towards the nape of my neck. “In order for this to work you need to be at your best game tonight.” Dizzy as his presence overwhelmed me, I did my best to nod. “You once told me to trust you, Kim. I need your word that I can.”

“You have it,” I failed to keep back the hitch in my breath at that, willing my brain to re-solidify into something useful. “With my life?” he prompted a bit more sharply, withdrawing only marginally. I angled my head to find his eyes, managing to lock onto one without leaving the cover of the bath, “I will do everything in my power to keep you safe and sane, Sher. I swear it.”

“Good.”

If we’d had a moment, it was gone as he surged onto his feet and dropped my hand, making short work of his sleeves and jacket, “John is downstairs with Henry, we shouldn’t keep them waiting. The brown suitcase should have everything else you will need tonight; come down ready to go within the half-hour. We’re going to Dartmoor.”


	37. Fear

36 – Fear 

The sun had long-since set by the time the four of us had driven out to the moor. Much like when we were kids, Henry was nothing but a bundle of nervous wreck. Thrice he’d tried to bail, and eventually he seemed to realize that no one was willing to budge on the matter—he was going and that was final. Unfortunately, that did nothing to impede the frankly annoying amount of fear that rolled off him in waves the moment we’d left Pan Manor. “I mean, Kim. You know this place better than I do. There’s no real reason for me to go along. I’d only get in the way…” His protests grew more and more hysterical as we hiked the rocky terrain, and I was beyond my wit’s end. “John?” I pleaded, falling back in my stride, “Switch?”

“…Right, okay.” Obediently the doctor caught up with the client as I stopped, waiting to fall in step with Sherlock instead. “You held out longer than I’d expected,” the detective greeted cheerily. “Yeah, well, me and my bloody sympathy, remember?” 

Sherlock hummed, guiding the torch in a sweeping path over the rocks, “You have it, then?”

“And the rounds,” I nodded, “Though I don’t know how fast I can reload.”

“I’ll need you to stay with John. Get on high, where the two of you can see everything. If you don’t get it, he will.”

“Okay.” I tried to keep my stride natural, despite the sudden awareness to the weight at my tailbone. The suitcase had held a small dart gun nestled in its holster between the mid-calf hiking boots, along with a small lock-box full of tranquilizer darts, a checkered flannel button-down, and one of my more broken-in pairs of jeans. Sherlock hadn’t said a word about it, nor was there a note left, but it was clear what he needed of me. 

Henry was to be the bait, certainly, but Sherlock would want to be at his level as well, to experience the Hollow just as his client had. This, unfortunately, meant he was leaving himself just as vulnerable. Being the one with the tranquilizer, if I saw anything I would shoot first—if that didn’t work, John would kill it.

“John,” Sherlock called, waiting for the doctor to stop and turn around. I could hear the detective’s grin as he kept walking, “Switch.”

“Okay, what are you planning,” John greeted as he brought up the rear. “We’ll be back up,” I lowered my voice and slowed my stride as Sherlock distracted Henry ahead, “If there is anything out there, it’s up to us to make sure it doesn’t hurt them.”

The farther we walked into the moor, the more I felt the adrenaline. Uncle’s words swam in the back of my head; I couldn’t get over the feeling that they were more important than the gibberish they seemed to be. Entering the thick of the forest I realized I wasn’t terrified of this beast nearly as much as of what it could do—of what would happen if I messed up. Visions of failure swarmed me, each more gruesome than the last, before I forced my eyes shut and began to even my breath. Deep, calm, soothing. Like the call of tide…

John’s hand found my shoulder gently, pulling me to a stop, “You don’t have to do this, Kim,” he said quietly, searching my face. I gave a tight smile and forced myself to continue on, determined not to lose them, “Yes, I do. Sher’s counting on us to keep him safe.”

“But then who will keep _you_ safe?”

“I _know_ this forest, John,” I reminded him gently, “If there’s a tree near the Hollow I haven’t climbed it isn’t possible _to_ climb.”

“I thought you said the Hollow was practically off-limits.”

“It is…which makes it the perfect spot to get out of your head and think.”

When we caught up to them the pair had already come across the Hollow and were descending into its depths. I nudged John one way around the lip as I went the other, clicking off my torch to better widen my range of vision. A thick fog rolled in below, obscuring my vision of either of them—I could only tell which was where by the height and position of their torches.

A deep, rumbling howl sounded somewhere to my right, away from the Hollow. Across the gap I could only just make out John as he snapped his head towards me, angling his torch as best he could through the foliage. I managed a nod at him before a rustle snapped my attention back the other direction. 

Inhuman snarling quickly joined the cacophony of snapping twigs, and a blurry black mass edged closer towards the Hollow. Below, someone shined a light at it, irritating the beast further. Catching the shine of its eyes directed straight for me and the drizzle of saliva from its snarling maw of sharp teeth, I suddenly felt as though the world slowed down.

Someone—or, perhaps, a multitude of someones—shouted my name as I darted away from the lip of the Hollow. In the dim light I could see it round on me, and my irrationally steady hands pulled out the dart gun, firing once. The beast gave a wounded snarl and crouched, ready to pounce, before three bursts of gunfire into the air scared it off.

I sucked in a deep breath of crisp air as time resumed full-force. The gun fell out of my grip as I backpedaled into the nearest tree, mind swimming with a never-ending loop of what just happened—of what _could have_ happened. I could distantly recognize Henry’s panicked mantra of _oh my god_ before Sherlock was suddenly right in my space, a wild look in his eyes and trembling grip tight as he shook my shoulders, “Are you alright?!”

It took far too long to get my voice functioning again. Forcing myself to _breathe_ I gently stilled the sleuth with a steady grip to his arms, “It’s _okay_ , Sher. I’m alright. It didn’t get me. It’s gone.”

The truth was? I _wasn’t_ okay. I was a shaking, terrified _mess_ and seeing Sherlock worse off wasn’t helping matters. Oh, he hid it well enough, especially standing next to the babbling wreck that was Henry, but he’d been completely silent and pale as a sheet since we’d left the forest. John had taken one look at Henry and decided to take the man home, leaving me to deal with Sherlock. _Somehow_.

Absently I stirred the steaming mug as I made my way back out into the sitting room, hesitantly offering the drink to the shaking sleuth. Sherlock took the mug long enough to set it on the table at his other side, pulling me in to share the overlarge armchair. He didn’t tear his gaze from the fire as he settled into what I’d begun to call _octopus mode_ , wrapping himself around me almost as though possessively. Only after he’d settled me in did I grab the mug again, taking a sip myself before offering it to him.

I considered it progress when he dropped his glance into the mug. “Chamomile with honey,” I explained softly, “It helps me calm down.” Sherlock took a large, shaking gulp and shoved the mug back into my hand. He still wouldn’t look at me. Sighing, I set it aside and gave in to my urge to comfort him, leaning into the tangled embrace and smoothing my thumb over the back of the hand that had come to rest on my scar. I felt him settle a little more, though he still seemed ridiculously tense. “Fear is chemical just as much as sentiment is, Sherlock.”

“I’m not _scared_ of some mutant _hound_ ,” he bit out angrily, though he pulled me almost subconsciously closer. “I’m not saying you are,” I placated, “But Henry was rank of terror. It’s contagious, Sher. Henry got himself worked into a tizzy and that made all of us more vulnerable to the symptoms. I was scared, too.”

“You usually are.”

“S’right,” I felt a bit of a smile tug at that. Some of the color had come back on his face, and I could feel the tension beginning to bleed out of him. “…How do you get rid of it?” Sherlock asked quietly. I shifted only far enough to look him in the eye, pleased when he met my gaze.

“I don’t,” I admitted quietly, “It gnaws at me every time a case comes up and any of us get into a situation. But by acknowledging why it’s there, I can get myself to use my fear of what _might_ happen to make sure that _never_ happens.” I let his lost gaze search my eyes a moment longer before I leaned back on his shoulder, not really wanting to see his reaction to my next words. “I was absolutely terrified tonight. I kept thinking how, if I didn’t shoot first, it would have gone straight down there after Henry, and you could have been torn limb-from-limb. I know dogs, they’re more likely to attack someone scared of them. They see it as hostile.”

Sherlock seemed to be trying to act normal as his free fingertips drummed absently on the armrest. His gaze had returned to the fire, “How well of a look would you say you had of it?”

“Not much, but enough to tell it was some kind of mutt. Large, black, wiry coat…I’d say it had a bit of Bulldog from its snout, but it was too big. Boxer, maybe…” Then, realizing by the light twitch near his eye he was trying to think too hard after being so worked up, I dragged his attention back onto me with a gentle pull at his chin, “Hey, no more thinking tonight. We’ve all been through a serious situation, and if you work too hard you might short-circuit or something.”

“Short- _circuit_?!”

“You _know_ what I mean. Like how John gets half-way through his crosswords.”

It was more than a small accomplishment when his shoulders drooped and amusement twinkled in his eyes. Something dawned on him, though, as he looked down at me, “I notice you’re the only one who hasn’t called it a hound.”

“Haven’t I?” I frowned at that, thinking through our time in Grimpen. “Maybe…” I said slowly, “Maybe that’s because of the three of us I know the place better. Maybe it’s because I actually _saw_ the thing—eyes and teeth and all—straight on. I _faced_ it; I know it’s a dog. The unkn—”

I stopped dead at that, thinking furiously. What had Uncle said? “Kim?” Sherlock asked softly. I inhaled deeply, startled back, realizing I’d held my breath that whole time. “He was warning me. Uncle Vinnie. When I went to go see him. It sounded like gibberish, but he was _warning_ me what would happen.”

“Can you remember what he said?”

“Give me a moment.” Closing my eyes I walked myself through my mind palace, using the adrenaline I felt now to find how I’d felt then. Managing to find the moment I did my best to channel the old man, “Danger in the air…The Devil’s Mouth opens wide, spitting venom at anyone who tries to enter. People do not trust what they cannot explain, and those who know truth are painted untrustworthy. The Hound is waiting. He’s an old dog. He’s done this before. Trussed himself in sheep’s clothing but you mustn’t fear what you see before you…” Blinking back into myself I took another deep breath and continued, “He told me to watch your back and stay on high. He’s the one who showed me the Hollow first—he knew I’d know the layout enough to stop it.”

“You mustn’t fear what you see before you,” Sherlock echoed quietly. “Then what we saw—”

“Isn’t a monster,” he finished, doubt and tension having all but bled out. In a sudden jerk of movement he threw back the rest of the chamomile and shot to his feet, racing through the room and up the stairs. “Where are you—?” Sighing, but more pleased he was back to normal than anything, I jogged quickly after him.


	38. Scoobies

37 – Scoobies

The following morning found me perched in the graveyard of all places, sat next to a more-than-a-little-irked John as we waited for Sherlock. The sleuth had up and disappeared just after breakfast with nothing more than a call over his shoulder that he’d meet up with us later.

“I’m not even sure he slept last night,” I admitted, scuffing my shoe on the edge of someone’s crumbled headstone. “That’s not too unusual,” John reminded gently. I rolled my eyes, “Yeah, but you saw how he was last night. He nearly bit your head off, he was so spooked. Speaking of, how’d it go with the shrink?”

“Fine…until Frankland showed up and all but implied the three of us are a _thing_.”

“We are a _thing_ ,” when that earned me a more-than-a-little disturbed glare, I gave a defensive shrug, “Okay, maybe not in _that_ sense. But c’mon. The three of us work together, live together—hell, we practically share the same _toothbrush_. We get on the way we are. Just because that isn’t sexual doesn’t mean it isn’t a _thing_.”

“And you don’t have a problem with that,” John frowned. I shrugged again, bumping bodily into his side, “Should I? Like you said, you’re practically my brother and Sherlock’s…well…”

“Yeah.” Hearing a familiar stride come around the bend John dropped the conversation there, once more flipping through his notes for something to do. I met Sherlock’s calculating glance-over with an open, soft grin that faded when he didn’t seem to acknowledge it.

Stopping on the path in front of us Sherlock stuffed his hands in his coat pockets, tone subdued as he addressed John, “You, um, get anywhere with that Morse Code?”

“No.” I realized I’d missed something as I watched John brush the sleuth off, hopping down from his perch to stride off. Glancing briefly at me Sherlock followed, “U M Q R A, wasn’t it?” As he muttered through the letters I jumped down myself, following quickly as John led the way around the church towards the Inn.

“Look, forget it. I thought I was on to something—I wasn’t.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah.”

“How about Louise Mortimer, did you get anywhere with her?”

“No.”

“Too bad. Did you get any information?”

I stifled a chuckle at that, surprised at the detective’s joke. John glanced over his shoulder to side-eye me, simultaneously giving his flat mate a hollow laugh, “You’re being funny, now?”

“Thought it might break the ice, a bit,” Sherlock, too, sent me a _look_ , almost as though it were _my_ fault John hadn’t liked the crack. John sighed, “Funny doesn’t suit you. Let’s stick to ice.”

Realizing at his tone that things weren’t as bad as first perceived, I felt my shoulders relax as I bounded closer, literally jumping into the conversation, “ _Well_. Now we’re all on the same page, have we got a plan?”

“If it _was_ some kind of hound, we’d be stupid to try and go back now that it’s been attacked,” John pointed out, coming to a stop in the car park of the Cross Keys. “Why are we all calling it a _hound_ ,” Sherlock interjected, “It’s such an archaic word. Not one most would use, yet one this fear of Henry’s has manifested. What if it wasn’t a word at all?” On a roll he pulled out his own notebook and scribbled something down—H O U N D. I stared at it before it clicked, “An acronym?”

“I have _absolutely_ no idea, but—”

His face pulled into a distracted frown as he caught sight of something over my shoulder. With little more preamble than an indignant demand of, “What the _hell_ are you doing here,” Sherlock strode quickly into the pub-side of the inn. It wasn’t until I followed that I recognized the man he’d spotted to be a very well-tanned Lestrade. “Oh, nice to see you, too,” the DI grumbled, stuffing his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “I’m on Holiday, would you believe.”

“ _No_ , I wouldn’t.” Ignoring the sleuth’s petulant pout Lestrade pulled off his sunglasses with a mildly-forced cheeriness, “Hullo John, Kim. What’s with the checks?”

“I’ve recently discovered the joys of button-downs,” I deadpanned without missing a beat as John nodded a greeting of the other’s name. “Well, I heard you lot were in the area—what’re you up to?” Lestrade gave a childish grin, “You after this _Hound of Hell_ like on the telly?”

Sherlock stared at him a beat, then, “I’m waiting for an explanation, Inspector, _why are you here_?”

“I’ve _told_ you, I’m on holiday.”

“You’re brown as a _nut_ , you’re clearly just back from your _holidays_.”

“Maybe I’ve fancied another one.” Sherlock shut down immediately at that, rolling his eyes with a silent but no-less suffering sigh, “Oh, this is Mycroft, isn’t it?”

“Now, look—”

“Of _course_ it is; one mention of Baskerville and he sends down my _handler_ to spy on me _incognito_. Is that why you’re calling yourself _Greg_?!”

I cleared my throat awkwardly, “Erm, Sherlock, that’s his real name.” Thrown off, the detective frowned at me, “…Is it?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Lestrade growled, “If you’d ever bothered to find out. Look, I’m not your handler. And I don’t just do what your brother tells me.”

“Actually, you _could_ be just the man we want,” John interjected thoughtfully. “Why,” Sherlock pouted. John rummaged through his jacket pocket, “Well, yesterday when I was asking about that Fletcher bloke, I think I may have found something. At first I wasn’t sure, but now I am; look.” He paused only long enough for the three of us to get a better look at the receipt embossed with the Cross Keys logo. “ _That_ is an awful lot of meat for a vegetarian restaurant.”

Sherlock and I shared an impressed look as John turned fully to Lestrade, “A nice, scary inspector from Scotland Yard who can put in a few calls might come in very handy.”

“Or…” Gaze turning meaningful, Sherlock’s lingering interjection had all three boys staring me down thoughtfully. I gulped, “You’re joking.”

“It’s _your_ hometown,” John pointed out. Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Your family owns perhaps the biggest property in Grimpen, Kim. A property and a _title_ you’ve clearly just inherited. It wouldn’t be so outlandish for you.”

“Yeah, and when it blows over as nothing I’ll be _exiled_.”

“You had plans of staying here?”

“Wait, hold on a tic, that _mansion_ on the top of the hill? Is that what this is about?” 

Glaring at the lot of them my mood didn’t brighten any when Lestrade finally caught on. “ _No_ ,” he stepped back in clear disbelief, “ _Our_ Kimmie?”

“I’m bypassing the disbelief simply because I’ve done a _very_ good job of burying my past, but yes,” I sighed, “I grew up very much involved in the town’s goings on until I got a scholarship for a tech school in London.”

“So it wouldn’t be that much of a stretch for you to show up and start an investigation,” John concluded cheerily. I glared darker, “The next time any of you are ganged up on and ask me to bail you out, I’m going to remember this and _laugh in your faces_. Be lucky I’m nice enough to not destroy all of your credit ratings.”

 

And so, after putting on my best posh face and rather bluntly maneuvering the Innkeepers into moving things along, I found myself pacing coolly behind Lestrade as he flipped through the record book in their adjoining flat. I mentally donned just enough of Lunar Anne to dominate the room, staring down either of the men I’d grown up knowing with a calm poker face whenever they tried to catch my eye. 

For a while, the only sounds in the room were the rustle of pages, the soft clink of a spoon on porcelain, and the sure, measured _thunk_ of my boots on the wood floor. Sherlock stood at the counter making a cup of coffee as John watched me in veiled fascination off to the side of the mantle. I had to remind myself not to do anything too drastic, as neither John nor Lestrade had seen my sadistic alter ego in action. 

The cup of coffee, it turned out, was for John, and it took quite a bit of effort not to break into a warm grin as I listened to their light banter on it. My attention shifted easily back when Lestrade spoke up at last, “These records go back nearly two months. Was that when you had the idea? After the TV show went out?”

“It’s me,” Billy spoke up quickly, pale-faced as his gaze once more flickered to my own, “It was me. I’m sorry, Gary, I couldn’t help it. I had a bacon sandwich at Cal’s wedding and one thing just led to another.” I rolled my eyes with a rather pointed scoff at that. Lestrade glanced to Sherlock who gave a nearly-imperceptible shake of his head, giving a simple enough answer to the lie. “Nice try,” the DI cut the chef off. Billy went, if possible, paler.

Gary sighed doomingly, “Look, we were just trying to give things a bit of a boost, you know?” I knew by his constant flick of his gaze in my direction his confession was as much to me as to the Inspector. “A great big dog run wild up on the moor, it was heaven sent. It was like us having our own Loch Ness Monster.”

“Where do you keep it,” Lestrade asked seriously. “There’s an old mine shaft. It’s not too far. He was all right there.”

“Was?” Sherlock interjected, eyes narrowing. Gary sighed again, “We couldn’t control the bloody thing! It was vicious. And then a month ago, Billy took him to the vet and, uh, you know…”

“It’s dead?” John frowned, stepping closer to measure their reactions himself. Gary turned to look at him long enough to nod before dropping his gaze to the table, “Put down.”

“Yeah,” Billy agreed solemnly, staring somewhere near my elbow. I frowned, catching something odd in his gaze as he continued, “No choice. So it’s over.”

“It was just a joke, you know?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade agreed sarcastically, standing, “Hilarious. You’ve nearly driven a man out of his mind.” At that he left, leading the way out and likely back to the car park. John followed after, but before I could leave Sherlock snagged me by the elbow in the hallway. 

Lunar Anne shattered almost instantly as I spun to meet his gaze. “Don’t tell John what you actually saw.” I wanted to question that, but something in his expression told me not to. I nodded and headed out, catching up just at the front door to the Inn. “You know he’s actually pleased you’re here? Secretly pleased,” John was saying cheerfully. Lestrade frowned, “Is he? That’s nice. I suppose he likes having all the same faces back together.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” I jumped in, looping an arm over either of their shoulders, “Dimmok was a berk and what’s-his-face that replaced him isn’t much better. And though Anderson and Donovan aren’t the _best_ of sidekicks, I know cases with the Scoobies go smoother than not.”

“The _what_ ,” John frowned. “You know—the Scoobies. The four kids and their dog.”

“You _didn’t_ just parallel our life to a cartoon,” Lestrade begged, though I knew by his tone he was grinning. “Four kids solving mysteries and a hound that’s more than your average dog. Tell me it doesn’t fit,” I challenged as John turned away to ask Sherlock, “So you believe them about having the dog destroyed?”

“Well, we’re not exactly kids, Kim,” Lestrade pulled my attention back. “Sherlock treats murders like Christmas come early, John _giggles_ at _crime scenes_ , I’m nosy to the point where even _Mycroft_ gives me a wide berth, and when you’re not intimidating people into giving you answers you act like a ten-year-old playing cops and robbers. Don’t deny it, I’ve ridden with you in a high-speed chase, you were egging the sod on with a grin that could light up Time Square.”

“Well,” Lestrade turned towards the others again, dropping the matter, “hopefully there’s no harm done. Not quite sure what I’d charge ‘em with anyway. I’ll have a word with the local force.” Then, nodding with a childish grin blooming, “Right, that’s that, then. Catch you later…I’m enjoying this! It’s nice to get London out of your lungs!”

“Good _bye_ , Greg,” I rolled my eyes with a sigh and a fond grin, watching him walk off before looking to the boys for direction. “So that was _their_ dog that people saw out on the moor?” John asked for confirmation. Sherlock remained poker-faced, seemingly caught in thought, “Looks like it.”

John frowned at me, “But that wasn’t what either of you saw, was it?”

“No,” I bit my lip and looked away, willing myself not to give anything away as Sherlock gave a brief but no less eerie false description of the thing. The three of us stood in pondering silence a moment before Sherlock sucked in a sharp inhale, spurring himself into movement as though pulled out from a deep train of thought. He pulled out his pocket book and scribbled something down, “Kim, I need you to get a sampling of this for me.”

_Vincent’s Sugar_ was scrawled on the page thrust at me. I gave him a mildly disbelieving look that John frowned at. “Meet us at the car as quick as you can.”

“R-right,” Heading off towards Vincent’s house again John questioned Sherlock on the order as they walked the other direction back towards Pan Manor. “I’ve got a theory,” I could just hear the sleuth reply, “but I need to get back into Baskerville to test it…”


	39. Wound

38 - Wound

In the time it took me to sneak in unnoticed, steal some sugar, and return to the car, John had taken up pacing and Sherlock had draped himself at an odd angle in the driver’s seat. “I called Henry,” John explained shortly, “He’s convinced himself he saw the hound in his back yard this morning. I don’t think he should be alone right now.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock scoffed, tone implying they’d argued on the matter at least once already, “His therapist will be there in half an hour, and _we_ need to get going.”

“Maybe I should stay with him, then,” I frowned. Sherlock sat up so fast for one bizarre moment I thought he’d fallen out of his seat. His eyes were wide in shock when he snapped his head towards me, “What? Why?”

“This whole hound thing has him out of his head crazy, Sher. I’m more worried about what he might do to Louise than anything. It’s one thing to jump at shadows when you’re home alone, but it’s another completely when you thrash in panic and could very well injure someone else.”

“But if you stay with him, wouldn’t that put _you_ in danger of him thrashing out?”

“I’ve dealt with a panicky Henry before,” I shrugged, “I’m pretty sure I can talk him down or at least hold him off long enough for Louise to get out of harm’s way.”

And so, after much grumbling from the sleuth I found myself being let into Henry’s house as the jeep drove away. As much as I wanted to go with Sherlock, part of me was glad I’d stayed behind. Henry was deathly pale and twitched at the smallest sound, eyes small and very nearly sunken. He looked like he’d aged twenty years since he’d come to see us, though after everything that’d happened that already felt like a lifetime ago.

I was half-way through making him some tea—he’d retreated into his bedroom after explaining Louise was running late—when I heard him give a muffled, but no less terrified shriek of “Oh, _god_!”

“Henry?” I raced over and knocked sharply thrice before letting myself in. He sat on the edge of his bed, facing the large window into the greenhouse, breathing loud gasps of terror into the hands covering his face. I winced in sympathy, falling to my knees beside him to gently pull his hands away, “Hey, it’s okay. Nothing is out there, Henry. It’s just you and me, okay?”

“Annie,” In the blink of an eye I found myself with an armful of terrified mess. Henry clawed at the back of my shirt, gathering it in unrelenting fistfuls, and heaved dry sobs into my shoulder. “Don’t let it get me, Annie, please. Please don’t. Don’t…”

Awkwardly my hands came up to pat against his back, “We’re safe here, Henry. Nothing can get inside. You need to calm yourself down, okay? It’s not easy, but working yourself up like this will only make things worse.” My ramble continued much in this sense. I wasn’t really sure it was working, and felt like I was just repeating myself, but it seemed to do something, for eventually he pulled away.

Henry wouldn’t meet my gaze as he nodded to my reassurances. “Come on, let’s get something in you,” I pulled him to his feet and back into the parlor, managing to convince him to wait alone while I collected his tea. He lasted all of ten seconds before the doorbell rang out, after which he gave a shrill shriek and flung his teacup up over his head in fright. “It was the doorbell, Henry,” I sighed, wincing as the fine china cup smashed into a thousand little pieces against the potted fig across the room.

“It’s probably Louise. Just…stay there, and I’ll go get her, alright?” Not bothering to wait for a reaction I left for the door. The part of me that was glad I’d stayed behind was rapidly being squandered by restlessness and aggravation at the client’s jumpy behavior. Pensively I wondered when the urge to run around without repercussions had come over me—but I’d always been a bit restless anyway. Stuck away from the investigation after being so thoroughly involved hit me harder than I ever would have suspected.

Shaking my head to clear my thoughts I pulled open the door. Louise’s smile fell into straight-faced annoyance as she met my gaze, “Oh. It’s you.”

“…Excuse me?” I frowned, stepping back to let her in. Disapproval radiated off the shrink as she shed her coat and led the way into the house, “Here to snoop about my patient as well, are you?”

“I seem to have done something to offend you. Is there something wrong with making sure a childhood friend doesn’t hurt himself in delusional paranoia?”

“That all depends,” she countered, spinning sharply on her heel to stare me down, “is there something wrong with using one of your _boyfriends_ to chat me up and get information out of me?”

Ah. So _that_ was it. I raised my eyebrows cooly and folded my arms across my chest, “Believe everything you hear in the gossip circles, do you?”

“The three of you certainly _seem_ chummy enough—”

“Stop. Just stop. Let me make something _perfectly_ clear for you, Miss Mortimer. I don’t care about your opinion of me. I don’t care that eccentric fans are apparently under the delusion that I’m creatively screwing my two best mates. If you want to believe what they say, than by all means, do. Just don’t shove your opinions and assumptions down my throat in an attempt to psycho-analyze me when you and I both know there’s a bigger picture here. You’re here to do your job; I’m here to make sure Sherlock’s client doesn’t do anything stupid. Once this case is solved, we will part ways, and I feel no guilt whatsoever in admitting to you that I will be _very_ thankful to _never_ see you again. Henry’s in the parlor. If either of you need me I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Successfully having told the woman off I spun on my heel and retreated, grin on my face as I stowed her blotchy, near-sneering reaction into my mind palace. _That_ would be worth dredging up on a dreary day, for sure…

Henry’s kitchen was very much lacking, as far as snack-type foods went. He was obsessively tidy and had at least four types of coffee, but strangely, hardly any sweets. The Henry I remembered had a terrible sweet tooth, and yet the closest thing I could find was a half-eaten strudel in the fridge.

Strudel…

My train of thought was promptly shattered when Louise shrieked. “N-now, H-H-Henry. Put the gun d-down…” He came running into the room with a wild look in his eyes, gun in hand and shrink on his heels. It was easy enough to tell he wasn’t in his right mind—his stride was over-compensated, as though he were on a far rockier terrain than a tiled floor. “Where the hell did he get a gun?” I called to the therapist warily. She ignored me, still chasing after the crazed man. 

Henry turned suddenly, arm shaking, as he aimed for Louise. I had just enough time to pull her down by the hair out of the way before he fired straight into the mirror behind us. Had I been even a second late, the bullet would’ve gone straight through her eye.

The sound of the shattered glass seemed to have snapped him out of his reverie. Henry staggered back a step and looked disbelievingly at the gun in his hand. “Oh my god,” he breathed. Louise whimpered a pathetic wail of terror as she clung to me, but I pried her off when Henry backpedaled out of the room. “Shit,” I surged to the doorway before realizing he was heading outside. There wasn’t any time…

Tossing my mobile at the shrink I hollered an order to call John before racing after the other, thankful I’d kept the boots from the night before.

Henry was already in the Hollow by the time I finally caught up with him. More pale than I’d yet seen him he all but blended into the fog as it rolled in, just as thick and heavy as last night. I felt my gut lurch when I realized he’d pulled the gun into his mouth, and without thinking I tackled him, pulling it away. His grip, shaky though it was, held firm, and we rolled in a struggle for control.

The shot rang loud in my ears as we rolled again, and I felt something collide with the back of my head. I had just enough time to register the bloom of pain in my right shoulder before gravity pulled me into a roll down a bumpy surface. Someone shouted my name. The world turned black.


End file.
